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ALL THAT MATTERS 












/ 

ALL THAT MATTERS 


BY 

/ 

PEARL WEYMOUTH 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS SELTZER 

1924 

V 




COPYRIGHT, 1924 , BY 
THOMAS SELTZER, Inc. 


All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

APR 29 '24 ’ 




■w> v 



I have written this booh in the hope that 
it will appeal to those who, in spite of the 
atrophying effect of civilisation on ele¬ 
mental emotions, can yet perceive that 
the call of the blood, in healthy surround¬ 
ings, draws inspiration from other 
sources than that which creates the hun¬ 
ger of the wolf .—P. W. 














CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Book One — At Longfield . 3 

Book Two —At Becclesfield . 119 

Book Three— At Longfield Again . 153 








BOOK I 

AT LONGFIELD 



















I 


























ALL THAT MATTERS 


CHAPTER I 


'T'HERE was a knock at the door and the butler entered. 

* “Have you seen Mr. Cleeve this morning, Elton?” 

“Yes, sir, he’s just finished breakfast, and as he put a 
few lumps of sugar in his pocket I fancy he’s round at the 
stables.” 

“You might go and see if you can find him. I want him 
rather particularly.” 

The study door closed and Col. Barrington rose from his 
desk and started to pace up and down the room, an open 
letter in his hand. 

The door opened again. He turned round with a worried 
look, which quickly died away as his eyes fell on his wife. 

Mrs. Barrington, who had noticed that worried look, 
turned to leave the room. 

“Don’t go, Sarah. You’ve come in at a very opportune 
moment. I’ve just heard from Travers and I’m afraid our 
hopes are dashed once more.” 

“You don’t mean to say, Sam, that the Conservative 
Association has refused to support Cleeve?” 

“Well, it’s not quite as bad as that, Sarah. Travers 
hasn’t exactly put it before the committee yet; all he says 
is that, as Chairman, he will do his best, but thinks the 
fact that Cleeve is unmarried a serious handicap, and goes 
on to say that the other members of the committee,—realis¬ 
ing that the popularity of the present Liberal member’s 
wife played a great part in the last election,—are anxious 
to have a married candidate.” 

“Sam, I expected this. You see, dear, the women’s vote 
does count, and it really is time Cleeve married.” 

Mrs. Barrington, however, got no further than this. The 
conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching 
footsteps and the humming of a favourite ditty somewhat 
out of tune. 


4 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“When all the world was young, lad, and all the trees were green, 

And every goose a swan, lad, and every lass a queen, 

Then hey for boot and spur, lad, and o’er the hills away, 

For youth must have its run, lad, and every dog its day.” 

A smile played over Mrs. Barrington’s face. She looked 
at her husband as she tried to suppress it, and he seemed 
to understand her thoughts, for a whimsical expression 
gleamed in his eyes as he ejaculated the one word, “Ir¬ 
repressible !’ ’ in an audible whisper just as Cleeve entered 
the room. 

“Hello, Guv’nor, what’s this pow-pow?” and going up 
to his mother Cleeve took her face between his hands, 
kissed her an affectionate good-morning, and looking 
laughingly into her eyes, said in expressive imitation of his 
father: 

“You know, Sarah, it’s time Cleeve married!” 

Col. Barrington frowned in an attempt to cover the smile 
which trembled on his lips as he interposed with, “Now, 
my boy, do be serious for once in a way. I have heard from 
Admiral Travers this morning, and from what he says I 
am very doubtful of the Conservative Association nominat¬ 
ing you as their candidate. You know, Cleeve, I wanted 
you to go in for the Army. It was your wish to adopt a 
political career, and I have spared neither trouble nor 
expense in fitting you for it.” 

“I see what’s coming, Guv’nor,” said Cleeve, determined 
to bring the matter to a head without any preliminaries. 
“You want me to marry. I guessed it the minute I saw 
you and mother together. Old Travers is always dropping 
hints on the same subject. It’s perfectly ridiculous! They 
want bachelors in Parliament just as they want married 
men, and I don’t see why I should sacrifice my freedom 
just to fall in with the views of the round dozen old fogies 
who call themselves the Committee of the Conservative 
Association! Fact of the matter is, Guv’nor, old Cartwright 
wants me to marry his own lumping daughter and I’m 
not on! Then there is the Hon. E. P. Maynard, another 
member of that august body, who would like me to marry 
his scarecrow of a daughter! And I have no doubt you 
have got someone in your mind’s eye. I’ll marry right 


AT LONGFIELD 


5 


enough when the right girl comes along, and not before. 
You wouldn’t have me do otherwise, would you, mother?” 

“Cleeve, I don’t want you to marry against your wish, 
but I do think, my dear boy, it is time you began looking 
round. Surely there are plenty of nice girls for you to 
choose from, and I don’t want my boy to be an old man 
by the time he has children. The one regret your father 
and I have is that we did not marry when we were a little 
younger.” 

“No, mother, it’s no regret at all, is it? If you’d 
married younger you might have had a daughter instead of 
Cleeve, and what would you do if you hadn’t Cleeve to 
call you mother, eh?” 

Mrs. Barrington gave a little chuckle. She dearly loved 
this irrepressible son of hers and she liked his trading on 
that love. 

Col. Barrington coughed. He saw that if he let mother 
and son talk it out, as they had so often talked it out before, 
they would end just where they had begun. 

“Come, come! Cleeve, do let’s get to business! We’ve 
talked this over before, I know, and it’s never come 
to anything, but after all you’re getting on, my boy. 
Let me see, you’ll be twenty-seven next birthday, won’t 
you? And you haven’t begun to take life seriously. 
Both your mother and I have been very patient, but isn’t 
it time you did marry and settle down, quite apart from 
the question of its desirability from a political point of 
view ? ’ ’ 

“All right, Guv’nor, I will be serious. The fact of the 
matter is one gets so many false starts. You meet a girl, 
you like her, you begin to think she’s the one girl in a million, 
but, as you get to know her, you discover some little trait 
which shows that you could never be in tune with her. 
Then before you’ve really had time to weigh the matter up, 
another girl comes on the scene with, what you consider, 
infinitely greater attractions, and later you find out that 
her faults are infinitely greater too.” 

For a few minutes there was silence. This was the first 
time that Cleeve had expressed any decided views on the 
subject, and Col. Barrington, as he ran through the names 
of the score or more of girls who had attracted Cleeve at one 


6 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


time or another, had to admit to himself that each and 
every one had her drawbacks. 

Mrs. Barrington’s thoughts were now equally in sympathy 
with Cleeve. Sam had not met her until late in life, and 
she had refused suitor after suitor because she found that 
as soon as men paid her court her interest slackened, and 
as she got to know them they sounded notes which jarred. 
It was only Sam who had never struck a false note as far as 
the chords of her heart were concerned. 

Cleeve’s thoughts also went a-roving. They flew back to a 
dance five years ago, when a slim, graceful girl, with chestnut 
hair, big violet eyes and lips so red that they almost belied 
the innocent tantalising expression of her face, had seemed 
to blow into the room like a cool fresh breeze on that sultry 
evening. 

It had all happened at the Three Arts Ball, and none 
of his friends knew the girl. Somehow the events of 
that night had always stood out in his memory. He 
could get no one to introduce him and he saw her 
being claimed by partner after partner with a regularity 
which threatened to thwart his design. But at last 
his opportunity came. She was alone in the hall for 
a few brief seconds, and then he put into practice his 
intention. Without a word of apology or explanation 
his arm slipped round her waist, and before the girl could 
utter a word of protest he had drawn her into the dance, 
both of them well aware of the sullen face of an elderly, 
aristocratic gentleman who watched them with a sinister 
expression in his eyes. How divinely her steps fitted 
in with his! He remembered it all. Remembered the 
devil that got hold of him, the satisfaction he felt at the 
towering passion depicted on that aristocratic face, the 
delight he took in the frightened deer-like expression in her 
eyes as they swayed to the rhythm of the music under the 
very nose of the man who seemed so impotent in his anger. 
And then the look of happiness and merriment she seemed 
to catch from him as they receded from that figure. He 
could feel again that dainty kiss-inviting hand which rested 
on his shoulder. The thrill he experienced as a little wave 
of her hair floated across his cheek. The look of confidence 
and trust she gave as the dance ended, and the cloud of 


AT LONGFIELD 


7 


anxiety which shadowed her face as they both stood 
clapping for an encore. He recalled his sense of exultant 
happiness, the swell of pride as the music began to tell its 
love dream over again when she, without an invitation, 
placed her hand on his shoulder as if the stolen moments 
were too precious to be lost. Then as the music quickened 
preparatory to the finish he recalled his eager request for 
another dance, and the expression in her eyes as she told 
him there would never be another. His feeling of despair 
as she watched the aristocratic figure approaching like a 
jailer to claim a prisoner. The hurried whispers between 
the two, the receding figures as they left the ballroom, his 
attempt to follow when it was too late. And more par¬ 
ticularly his feelings of anger, hate and longing as the 
door of the brougham closed smartly on one who had 
crept into his heart and bombed it without permission; 
and finally the overwhelming feeling of loneliness at the 
scrunching of the wheels as the brougham disappeared into 
the darkness. 

He was brought back to earth again; his father was 
speaking. 

“You know, Cleeve, your mother wants to see you 
married even more than I do, and you don’t know what it 
would mean to her happiness, and to mine, to see a little 
grandson and to know that there will be someone to carry 
on the name. Isn’t that so, Sarah?” added the old man, 
looking wistfully at his wife. 

Cleeve looked at his mother and thought he saw tears 
gathering in her eyes. It struck him how frail and delicate- 
looking she was. He had never noticed those blue veins 
over her temples before. The vision of the dance com¬ 
pletely faded away. He read in his mother’s eyes the 
meaning of the look she gave him; he read it correctly. 
There was no need for her now to add her voice to that of 
his father, for he read as clearly as if it had been printed 
across her brow that she felt she had not long to live. He 
read the unspoken appeal which sprung from her wish to 
see him married before the time came to say goodbye; 
and he bent down and kissed her. He understood at 
last! 


CHAPTER II 


A FEW days later Cleeve Barrington, for perhaps the first 
** time in his life, found himself seriously studying his 
own affairs. Yes, it was true, he was getting on in years. It 
was only natural that his father and mother should wish to 
see him comfortably settled in life. He had had his fling, and 
as for that vision of five years ago, it was a thing of the past. 
Was his career to be blighted by the memory of a nameless 
being who had on one solitary occasion just flitted into 
and out of his life? After all they had only been together 
for a few fleeting minutes, and it would probably have 
been the same with her as with the others. A little 
intimacy and the flaw would disclose itself, then those 
notes which jarred would be heard again. Every woman had 
jarring notes; he should have realised it before. Nobody 
was ideal, and if he were to defer his marriage until he met 
the ideal woman he would have to carry on the search in 
another world. 

Country life had its attractions, but it hardly satisfied 
the ambitions of a man. He was getting to an age when 
nature called for something more than the satisfaction of 
its sporting instincts. He had to confess that he was 
getting discontented with his present mode of living. 
There was a growing craving to be up and doing something 
that would enable him to make a name in the world. Yes! 
he would marry and settle down, and throwing himself 
ardently into politics earn the respect of his fellow men. 

These thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door 
and the appearance of Elton with a note. 

“The messenger is waiting for a reply, sir.” 

Swanston House. 

My dear Cleeve, 

Will you once more act the part of good Samaritan and come 
over to help us with our decorations? I expected my niece yesterday, 

8 


AT LONGFIELD 


9 


but she has only just arrived and is too tired to help, so your 
assistance would be very welcome. 

Yours sincerely, 

Eloise de Haviland. 

P.S.—Alice and Muriel Ryder are here. 

Cleeve crushed the letter into a ball and threw it on the 
fire. The ball expanded with the heat. He watched it 
with an abstracted air. Slowly the ball opened exposing the 
postscript “Alice and Muriel Ryder are here.” The charred 
edges crept nearer, and finally the sentence disappeared in 
the flames, and then point came to his thoughts. 

“Circumstances and fate mean me to choose one of 
them,” he reflected. “But it’s very difficult to work up 
any enthusiasm when they’re both dressed so much alike; 
when both go to the same places at the same time, one in a 
blue dress, the other in a pink, both cut from the same 
pattern. One in a blue hat, the other in a pink, but both 
fashioned on the same shape. A mother like Mrs. Ryder 
should be held responsible for a criminal act, that of con¬ 
spiring to wreck the marriageable chances of two otherwise 
desirable girls. There should be a law compelling the 
mother to dress one, and the father the other.” 

“Any reply, sir?” said Elton. 

“Yes, one minute, Elton,” responded Cleeve, and 
seating himself at the writing desk he scribbled off a reply 
. . . “He would be delighted to come and give any help 

he could, etc., etc. . . .” 

He folded the note and as he addressed the envelope his 
thoughts took up their previous trend. . . . But were 

they both alike? 

Lately circumstances had thrown him and Muriel 
together and the last few months had enabled him to obtain 
quite a sound knowledge of her. There was no doubt she 
was an attractive girl. No replica of the too wise and 
ultra-modern women with their interminable discourses 
on Freudism, feminism, socialism, and all the other “isms” 
which the average man hates but sometimes puts up with 
for the sake of other things. She didn’t look too good like 
the shrinking mid-Victorian miss who could only face life 
with a bottle of smelling salts. She could run a house, for 


10 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Mrs. Ryder had seen to that part of her education, and 
after all if a man were to be comfortable it was essential 
that his wife should excel in the home. 

She was an outdoor girl too. Played a good game of 
tennis, could sit a horse. In fact the more he considered, 
the more Muriel appeared desirable. The picture of Muriel 
as he had last seen her focussed itself on his mind. 

He had left her at the footpath leading to the vicarage, 
and as he was helping her over the stile her dress had 
caught on a nail and she had fallen backward into his 
arms. He remembered that little thrill he had experienced, 
how for one brief instant he had held her tightly in his 
embrace, how dangerously near her face had been to his 
and the sudden temptation that had assailed him. 

He recalled his feelings at the time and as he dwelt on 
them he made up his mind to vacillate no more. The Adam 
in him was pulling hard! In his imagination he held her 
in his arms again, and the thought stirred his being. 

Mechanically he handed Elton the note and, oblivious 
of everything but his thoughts, mentally clasped Muriel 
to him and unconsciously muttered aloud: “And tell 
Mrs. de Haviland to put her niece to bed.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Elton as he shut the door. 

“Yes, sir?” repeated Cleeve. “What the devil does 
Elton mean? Can that man read my thoughts?” He 
dismissed the idea as an impossibility and ascribing Elton's 
reply to an excess of politeness he resumed his reverie. 
“Yes, Muriel, tell Mrs. de Haviland to put the niece to 
bed and send everyone away so that you and I can have a 
few minutes alone, for this afternoon I want to tell you 
something. To tell you that I've waited long enough. 
After all, Muriel Ryder, you’re a very attractive girl in 
some ways, and a man might go much farther and fare 
much worse. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER III 


drawing-room at Swanston House was being rapidly 



1 converted to serve the purpose of a ballroom. By the 
time Cleeve entered, the heavy furniture had been removed 
and the oak floor stripped of its rugs. Numerous Chinese 
lanterns and several heaps of coloured muslin lay scattered 
about, but Cleeve took no notice of these things. He was 
only aware of Muriel Ryder at the far end of the room 
endeavouring to drape one of the French windows which 
opened on to the terrace. 

A hasty glance round assured him that she was alone, 
and he advanced with the intention to seize the present 
opportunity to ascertain her real feelings towards him. 

“ Hello, Mr. Barrington, you’ve come? This is a 
surprise !’ 1 

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” replied Cleeve, “I sent a note 
round an hour ago to Mrs. de Haviland saying I was 
coming. ’ ’ 

“Oh, but you know what men are, Mr. Barrington! 
They usually turn up when all the work is finished and, 
holding out their hands like clowns in a circus, run round 
pretending to do things which have already been done!” 

Cleeve laughed. “Yes, I suppose we are like that. 
Helpless things men, aren’t they?” 

“Yes, they are!” 

Muriel started to descend the ladder, on which she had 
been standing while trying to persuade a fold of muslin 
to take the exact curve she wanted, and looked down on 
to Cleeve’s upturned face. There was a mischievous gleam 
in her eyes combined with a look of triumph born of the 
knowledge that the man who was speaking to her was not 
entirely indifferent to her attractions. The look he had 
given her and the way he had held her as he released her 
dress from that nail on the stile had conveyed to her an 


11 


12 ALL THAT MATTERS 

impression that a new era was possibly about to dawn for 
them both. 

She had given much thought to her future since their 
last meeting and knowing Cleeve, as she thought, fairly 
well, she anticipated that he would be more inclined to 
retreat than advance at their next interview. 

The light banter which had passed between them 
did not deceive Muriel Ryder, for the tone of his voice 
vibrated the antennae of her womanly intuition and 
warned her that Cleeve Barrington was about to make a 
definite advance. She noted the determined look on his 
face, the serious expression of his eyes, and the 'mis¬ 
chievous gleam in hers quickly changed to a look of 
extreme demureness. This lightning change, this exhibi¬ 
tion of the actor’s part, which comes to most women in 
more or less degree when an attack of this nature takes 
them by surprise, acted as an additional incentive to 
Cleeve’s determination. He had a sudden desire to clasp 
this attractive girl in his arms, and he couldn’t quite 
understand himself. 

It was true that after their last meeting his thoughts, 
now and then, had wandered in her direction, but until 
that morning they had not been serious thoughts. He 
tried to analyse his feelings, to understand why he had 
such an overwhelming desire to clasp and kiss her. He 
had met her hundreds of times before without having 
had a similar desire. She attracted him, but never 
till this minute, excepting perhaps that occasion at 
the stile, had there been any element of sex appeal. Now 
he felt regret that he had not kissed her when he had the 
opportunity. He wondered what it would feel like to 
touch her lips, to draw her closely to him. And at 
that thought he had a sub-conscious impression that 
if he had taken the opportunity when it presented 
itself at the stile, the love which he had always hoped 
for might have sprung from the embrace. Then came 
the events of that other morning. His father’s conversation, 
his mother’s silent appeal, and now this meeting. It all 
seemed to him the hand of fate. The desire to hold this 
girl in his arms was irresistible, and it was a desire which 
quickly transformed itself into action. 


AT LONGFIELD 


13 


His arms went out to embrace her as she descended the 
ladder, a whisper escaped his lips, but a whisper so strong 
and deep it could be heard all over the room. 

“Muriel, I want you!” . . . His lips touched hers. 

A startled exclamation from Muriel, whose eyes had 
turned in another direction, warned him they were not 
alone; and swinging round with a fierce look on his face 
he met the astonished gaze of a tall, slim girl who had halted 
in the doorway opposite them. A look of confusion on the 
girl's face conveyed more forcibly than words that not 
only had she seen that kiss but had heard the yearning 
cry which preceded it. The anger which sprung to 
his face at the intrusion was replaced by a look of amaze¬ 
ment and incredulity. Was he dreaming? Was it an 
apparition? A phantasy of his mind? That he saw in 
that doorway the girl with whom he had danced five years 
ago? 

Something in the girl's astonished expression prompted 
him to save her from blurting out any apology for her in¬ 
trusion. The look on her face suggested incredulity, but 
something more than incredulity, and to Cleeve Barrington 
it appeared as though she was striving to blot out a vision 
of something unclean. 

In the thoughts which followed that belief Cleeve found 
his lost wits. This was no phantasy of his mind, and he some¬ 
how clearly read the girl’s intention to make an apology 
which would give her an excuse for quitting the room and 
leaving him alone with Muriel again. The desire to 
frustrate that intention energised his brain. He would not 
be left alone with Muriel. If the girl left, he would leave 
with her. Oh! how he regretted his speech and action! 
What a damned fool he felt! He would rather the whole 
world had witnessed what had passed than that slim, grace¬ 
ful girl in the doorway; and it was perhaps this latter 
reflection which, more than anything else, restored his 
self-control. 

His eyes returned to Muriel as he commenced to speak 
in a perfectly natural self-possessed voice: “I think, 
Muriel”—the absence of the word “Miss” was intentional— 
“we've played kiss in the ring long enough! What do 
you say to doing a little work now?” 


14 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


His words were accompanied by such a confiding, in¬ 
sinuating smile of amusement that the tension of the 
situation was momentarily relieved. 

Giving Cleeve an understanding look which plainly 
conveyed her gratitude for his successful attempt to save 
an awkward situation, Muriel advanced towards the girl 
in the doorway. 

“I quite agree with you, Mr. Barrington, but I must first 
introduce you to Mrs. de Haviland’s niece. ” 

Still covered with blushes which had been brought into 
being by his passionate cry and heightened by the confused 
feelings which the interruption had caused, Muriel Ryder 
hurriedly sought a diversion in the introduction which 
followed. 

“ Yvonne, this is Mr. Barrington. Mr. Barrington, I 
don’t think you have met Mrs. de Haviland’s niece before 
. . . I’ve forgotten your other name,” she added dis¬ 

joint edly, turning towards the intruder. 

It was rather a quaint introduction, but Yvonne, for 
some reason she could never afterwards quite explain, let 
it pass. And Muriel, who had not quite recovered from 
her previous excitement, was too unnerved to notice any¬ 
thing strikingly unusual in the introduction. She was 
longing to be alone. Her one desire was to seek some 
sheltered spot where she could commune with her thoughts, 
and making the excuse that she must go and find her sister, 
she hurried away, leaving Cleeve and Yvonne together. 


CHAPTER IV 


T T WAS an awkward moment for Cleeve Barrington, but, 
* finding himself alone with Yvonne, he assumed an in¬ 
difference he was far from feeling as he turned to address 
her. “Well, I never expected to see you again! Had I 
known that Mrs. de Haviland’s niece was the little lady I 
danced with five years ago I should have been here an hour 
earlier.” 

“Yes, I suppose you would! It’s my fault, Mr. Bar¬ 
rington, not yours. You didn’t expect to see me so early 
on the scene, but I knew you were coming and was waiting 
for you.” 

“What, then you’ve known who I was all along! And 
instead of resting after your journey you preferred to seek 
me?” replied Cleeve, on whom the insinuation in Yvonne’s 
remark was lost. 

“I knew your name, but I didn’t associate it with any 
previous meeting. My aunt gave such a glowing account 
of you that I thought I would just peep into the ballroom. 
Just a womanly curiosity, you know. But, of course, I 
can see it would have been better for you if I had not 
indulged it, or better still, if you had come an hour earlier. ’ ’ 

Cleeve Barrington winced and, hurriedly turning the 
conversation, replied, “Well, you know, I only came to 
help with these decorations and I understood both the Miss 
Ryders would be here, but now it looks as if”—here 
he glanced round at the otherwise empty room—“I shall 
have to do it all myself, and a pretty mess I’ll make of 
it without a little feminine touch, eh?” 

The tantalising strain in Yvonne’s nature could not be 
suppressed and her dark violet eyes lit up with what Cleeve 
Barrington took to be merriment as she replied, “Yes, I 
thought myself when I came in a little feminine touch was 
what was wanted!” 


15 


16 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


For Cleeve Barrington the awkwardness of the situation 
was relieved by that merriment. He burst out laughing 
and suggested that she should help him if she were not too 
tired. . . . “ Would she mount the step ladder and finish 

the draping of the door on which Miss Ryder had been 
engaged ?” 

“I think you or Miss Ryder should finish what you 
began/’ said Yvonne very significantly. “You know the 
old adage: ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth’. . . . And 

besides, I don’t like beginning where others leave off.” 

Cleeve winced again at that remark; turning it over 
quickly in his mind he came to the conclusion that it 
might refer, not only to the work of draping the door, but 
to the interrupted scene which she had witnessed between 
himself and Muriel. 

The spell of understanding which he thought had been 
established was suddenly broken, as Yvonne intended it 
should be. For some reason or other she did not like 
Cleeve Barrington’s complacent jocularity, and, as a matter 
of fact, Cleeve was not particularly enamoured of himself 
at the moment. He knew that if anyone other than Yvonne 
had entered the room he would have been making some 
lame excuse to absent himself in order to renew his inter¬ 
rupted conversation with Muriel, yet there he stood with 
no such intention, like a moth, hovering round a candle 
flame, courting the singeing of its wings. There was a 
double meaning in all Yvonne’s remarks, he was sure, and 
for some unaccountable reason he had fallen in his own 
estimation. He felt the sting of her subtlety, and manlike, 
was angry with her because he considered she had only 
helped to relieve the situation in order to create an atmos¬ 
phere of greater antipathy, and with Muriel for leaving him 
alone with this bewitching girl whose tongue had alternately 
soothed and stung. 

With that wince and the look which accompanied it 
Yvonne’s desire for further conversation evaporated, as 
also did Cleeve’s, who felt more inclined to go out and 
swear. And so it happened that in that atmosphere of 
antipathy they both, as if by mutual agreement, sought 
solace in the work before them, and by tea-time had com¬ 
pleted the decoration of the room. 


AT LONGFIELD 


17 


Their work finished, Cleeve advanced to the centre of 
the room to survey the result of their handiwork and was 
immediately joined by Yvonne. 

“Are you satisfied, Miss Yvonne, or are you sorry you 
began where others left off?” He made the remark in 
a rather distant tone, breaking the silence which had 
hung like a heavy cloud over the room for so long a time. 

The work had proceeded in silence, but Yvonne had on 
occasions, almost too numerous to count, glanced in his 
direction and was somewhat piqued because he had never 
so much as glanced in hers. She had changed her opinion 
about this man. He had done things so quietly with a set 
look of determination on his face and had so completely 
ignored her presence that she somehow sensed a hidden 
strength in his character. “I should like to see him 
really roused,” she thought. 

He looked her straight in the face as he asked his 
question and his jaws had closed with a snap which sug¬ 
gested that in his present mood it would take little to rouse 
him. There was no doubt about it he was a man who would 
appeal to many women. His steel blue eyes were steady 
and unflinching, the straight, refined nose, set mouth and 
firm chin looked austere when untempered by a smile, but 
now his nostrils were slightly distended, indicative of 
suppressed excitement. He seemed to be waiting for her 
reply with no little degree of impatience, and there was a 
look of challenge about his whole attitude. His broad 
shoulders and tall, shapely body seemed itching to move, 
and in reality but little impulse was needed to make 
them move, for his whole being was strung to action. 

The oppressive silence of the afternoon had had its effect. 
The anger which had prompted him to set about his work 
so quietly had gathered strength. As tack after tack had 
been driven home, to keep the coloured muslin in place, the 
strokes of his hammer had seemed to re-echo those sneering 
words, “I don’t want to begin where others leave off.” 
He read a taunt in the sentence, and his calm outward 
demeanour was only an artificial veneer holding in check 
a storm of anger which had increased as Yvonne had 
continued to ignore his presence. 

Yvonne saw this. It could clearly be read in the ex- 


18 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


pression of his eyes. Instinctively she knew that she could 
allay that storm. She had only to express her satisfaction 
and to thank him on her aunt’s behalf for the help he had 
given. But the unmistakable ring of challenge in his 
voice was too much for her perverse nature. It was a 
tense moment and, standing face to face, their breaths 
quickened. She would goad this man to fury, this she 
determined, and she was sensitive enough of her powers 
to imagine that she could turn his fury to impotence. 

“I see nothing to be satisfied about, Mr. Barrington. I 
don’t want to take any of the congratulations which should 
be given to you and Miss Ryder.” 

The word “congratulations” stung Cleeve. He drew a 
step nearer, his eyes ablaze. The look and the suddenness of 
his movement unnerved her. She put out her hand as if to 
ward him off. It touched his arm, and then quietly and 
determinedly as in the lull before the storm he began to 
speak. The words came out deliberately. 

“Congratulations, Miss Yvonne! Who spoke of con¬ 
gratulations?” His hand fastened on the arm which 
was touching him and his face was close up against hers. 
Under the spur of his grip she tossed her head with an air 
of disdain. He looked a splendid fighter, a man who would 
not be baulked of his purpose. . . . Neither would she be 

baulked! 

“Yes, congratulations!” She shook off his hand and, 
taking two quick steps backward, made a low mocking 
curtsey. “Congratulations to you and Miss Ryder!” 
As she spoke she bowed her head with a demure look of 
assumed meekness and then raising it quickly, she added: 
“If I were a man I’d have sufficient courage to follow up 
my quarry, but I suppose you will deny there was any 
meaning in what I saw and heard and try to make out you 
were only playing kiss in the ring. If so, I fancy I shall 
shortly hear the cock crow thrice.” 

Her beautiful lips added a sneer to her taunt, and throw¬ 
ing back her head, her nostrils dilated. The challenge was 
in her eyes now. 

“You defy me,” he said. “There was a sneer in your 
taunt that you would not begin where others left off, and 
as you are so fond of the Scriptures, may I ask is thy 


AT LONGFIELD 


19 


servant a dog that he should be lashed by your tongue and 
come to heel at your beck and call, or lie quiet and wag his 
tail because it pleases you to say nothing to him the whole 
afternoon? I hate you! . . . No, I lie! . . .1 love 

you . . . that is, I love the picture you present, the rest 

of you doesn’t count!” 

Yvonne threw back her head still further and gave a 
derisive little laugh. She was a girl no longer, but a woman 
stirred by something inside her, the existence of which she 
had been previously unaware. 

‘‘Yes, my servant is a dog,” and bending low she snapped 
her fingers at the level of her knees and called sweetly in 
a coaxing, mocking voice: “Come here, little doggie, come 
here and die for ‘Queen Muriel’!” 

“Doggie” did die, or raiher, was transformed into a 
furious human tiger. In one quick sudden movement he 
gripped her and before she could move his arm encircled 
her waist, his face buried itself in her white slender 
neck and she felt his hot lips burning into her flesh. With a 
strength born of suppressed anger and the wish to humiliate, 
he drew her closely to him, holding her so tightly she could 
hardly breathe. The climax was at hand. He turned her 
head towards him slowly and deliberately, heedless of the 
force he had to exert to overcome her resistance, and, 
placing his lips on hers, kissed them passionately. For a 
few seconds she lay inanimate in his arms, and if Cleeve 
Barrington could have seen into her eyes their look would 
have checked his rough passionate embrace. It might 
have been better for them both if he had seen, but her eyes 
were apparently closed, and he was too blind to see. A 
second later it was too late, for she suddenly felt the shame, 
the indignity of it all, and in a tide of anger, which gave 
her additional strength, she broke from his embrace, and the 
next moment he felt a stinging blow on his cheek. , 

The blow would have brought most men to their senses, 
but Cleeve’s passion had been lashed to fury and that blow 
only served to further inflame him. On freeing herself, she 
made no attempt to run away. She stood facing him, as 
a tigress faces its mate; and Cleeve, without realising 
what he was doing, rained a blow with each hand on either 
side of her face before he could stop himself. She gave a 


20 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


little cry, her hands went up to her face, and with broken 
pride she buried her bowed head in the upturned palms, 
while hot tears of shame trickled through her fingers. She 
had sown a storm and reaped a whirlwind. 

In the brief moments which followed Cleeve stood there 
mutely suffering the torments of hell. He had waited all 
these years, faithful to her memory, and fate, on the thres¬ 
hold of their second meeting, had dealt him a series of 
crushing blows. Playing on the love he bore his mother, 
it had sent him the silent message of her dying wish; had 
revealed its cloven hoof in the postscript ‘ ‘ Muriel and Alice 
are here,” sent one, whose image was graven on his heart 
to witness an avowal which was a sacrilege against the 
ideals of his love. And now, oh God! he had struck 
“her” in the blindness of his outraged feelings. 

For one fleeting second he was tempted to take the slim, 
bent figure of Yvonne in his arms and, throwing himself on 
her mercy, implore her forgiveness. Tempted to tell her 
he had not known what he was doing and that he was 
consumed by a greater feeling of self-loathing and contempt 
than she could ever understand; tempted to tell her that 
in spite of all that could be said to the contrary, the fact 
remained that what he had done had been done in love, but 
a love so strong and virile that it had overwhelmed him, 
a love so intense that to goad it were mere madness, for 
in the intensity of its flaming passion even honour and self- 
respect could melt. But he did none of these things, for 
they were foreign to his nature. He came from a stock 
whose ancestors in bygone days fought for their women 
and with savage instincts held what the sword had given 
them. Standing there irresolute, those inbred savage 
instincts rose from their dead ashes and whispered that 
there was no real shame in taming the spirit of the woman 
he loved, that he had the exulting consolation that he had 
held her tightly in his arms, and nothing else mattered, not 
even the barrier his acts had placed between them. 

Then it was that Yvonne, with her hands still before her 
face, made a few hesitating steps towards the door but, as 
the apology she was waiting for continued to be withheld, 
she suddenly dropped her hands and turned towards him 


AT LONGPIELD 


21 


once more. Her cheeks were scarlet, showing that the 
blows had been no light ones, the tears were still in her 
eyes, but there was no sign of the broken girl of a few 
seconds before as she flung her words at him. “I suppose 
I must put up with the chivalry of the stables when I come 
in contact with certain members of a hunting fraternity, 
Mr. Barrington,” and with this cutting rebuke she turned 
her back on Cleeve Barrington and left the room. 

Yvonne’s shaft missed its mark; Cleeve Barrington could 
suffer the torments of hell for one who had a claim on his 
pity, but what Yvonne’s tears created Yvonne’s taunt dis¬ 
pelled. His anger and indignation were rekindled by the 
cutting sarcasm of her remark, and he gave vent to words 
which he devoutly hoped would reach her ears. 

Whatever remorse Cleeve had momentarily experienced 
completely vanished with that reference to the stables. 
In the blindness of his anger he could see no injustice in 
what he had done. He was a good lover and a good hater 
and his hate was now so great that he was ashamed of 
what he considered the weakness which had caused him 
those torments of hell. 1 ‘What right had she to stand 
and listen to the avowal which fate had thrust upon him? 
She had no love for him!” . . . and the look she had 
given him when at that dance five years ago she had told 
him “there would never be another” was self-evidence of 
her want of feeling. . . . “right!” he ejaculated. “She 
has no right at all! ” He was too angry to consider what 
he had thrown away,—the chance of winning her love. 
But not too angry to ask himself if he had wronged her. 
“Wronged her?” As the words formed in his brain he 
gave an exultant, satirical laugh and his exultation rose 
at the thought that his kisses had spoken about other things 
than love, at the thought that her yielding body had pro¬ 
vided a keyboard on which the messengers of his mind had 
played the tune she deserved. But what he did not know, 
unfortunately for his future peace of mind, was that they 
had played such a crescendo of sublime passion that a 
garden of Eden, with all its nakedness, had been created 
for them both. . . . No, he had not wronged her! It would 


22 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


not have mattered if he had! All that mattered was that 
he had wronged himself, wronged his love, the love he’d 
held so pure! He had a feeling of divine satisfaction at 
the thought that he would never be forgiven for those 
blows, he did not want forgiveness. There was nothing to 
forgive. 


CHAPTER V 


**]VJRS. DE HAVILAND would like to know, madame, 

^ * if you’re coming down to tea?” 

“No, I’m too tired, Cecile, I want to be left alone until 
it’s time to dress for dinner,” and as an excuse for keeping 
her face hidden until her maid had departed Yvonne crossed 
over to the writing-table in the window and, unlocking her 
dressing-case, took out her journal. 

She was angry with herself for giving way to her 
emotions. “What would Cecile think if she saw I’d been 
crying?” she murmured to herself. 

Yvonne had been brought up to consider that any ex¬ 
pression of emotion except a simulated one should be sup¬ 
pressed; and that it was only “ ’Arry and ’Arriet” who 
showed their real feelings. 

Until Cecile’s advent she had been too indignant and 
angry to sense any other feelings than those which outraged 
modesty implant, but now she felt ashamed of herself. 
What would Mr. Barrington think of her behaviour? He 
was probably gloating over her exhibition of weakness. 
Oh, how she wished she had stood still while he struck 
those blows and unflinchingly looked him up and down 
until he sensed the shame of his action, and then her 
remark,—“I suppose I must put up with the chivalry of 
the stables when I come in contact with certain members 
of a hunting fraternity,”—would have been ever so much 
more cutting. But this thought gave her no satisfaction; 
she had not done it, had not hidden her feelings. Perhaps 
that was why he had treated her like that. He had seen 
through her artificial bearing, and, at the first opportunity, 
had torn away the flimsy veil which hid her human 
weakness. 

Why was her punishment always kisses? She supposed 
she must look like a debaucheuse who wanted them. She 

23 


24 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


recalled a conversation she had overheard at the Three 
Arts Ball five years ago. . . . She was dancing with Mr. 
Barrington at the time, and as she passed a rather elderly 
couple she heard the woman say, “You don’t seem able to 
take your eyes off: that girl, who is she? Do you know 
her?” . . . “No, I don’t,” was the man’s emphatic reply, 
“and I wouldn’t like to! She’d tempt a saint with those 
eyes and that colouring.” Oh, how those words had eaten 
into her soul. She had never been able to forget them; 
for as she had turned to the rhythm of the music she had 
glanced at her partner’s face and from its expression she 
was certain he, too, had heard. A certainty which, to her, 
became more certain when he eagerly pressed her to give 
him another dance. She had not forgotten how he seemed 
to bend over her as he made the request and the excited 
look in his eyes; nor her feeling that if he hadn’t been in 
the ballroom he would have kissed her neck. 

She remembered that even in her school days the boys 
were always wanting to kiss her in preference to the other 
girls, and when they did kiss her they always hugged her 
more than they seemed to hug the others. “Perhaps it 
was,” she reflected, “because her mother was French and 
French women were so wickedly beautiful and made men 
feel wicked too.” 

Yvonne had taken out her journal intending to write it 
up to date, but these thoughts drove that intention from 
her mind. She was in no mood to write, and locking it 
away she crossed over to the mirror and gazed pensively 
at her reflection. The image in the glass reflected a tall, 
slim figure with a small head poised regally on a slender 
white neck, and crowned with a mass of chestnut hair 
reflecting copper lights here and there as its natural waves 
caught the rays of the afternoon sun. The face, heart- 
shaped, with its somewhat rounded, rather prominent chin, 
was of a clear creamy colour, which threw into relief the 
dark eyebrows, the curling lashes and the rather wide 
mouth, with its deliciously curved full red lips. The dainty 
white dress with its long simple lines emphasised the youth¬ 
fulness of her figure, and the flimsy whiteness of the spar¬ 
ingly used exquisite lace round the rather low-cut neck only 


AT LONGFIELD 


25 


served to render more fair by comparison the bare neck 
and sloping shoulders. 

“Yes,” Yvonne nodded to her reflection, “you’re very 
pretty, my dear, and very French, I won’t pretend you’re 
not! And as it appears to be your fate to provoke nothing 
but beastly passions I won’t try to stop things any longer. 
You shall fulfil your despicable destiny.” 

She whispered the last sentence almost inaudibly with 
her eyes fixed on the red mark below her ear where Cleeve’s 
fingers had pressed as his lips lingered on hers. And as 
she thought of that kiss her eyes sparkled and some of her 
anger and self-loathing disappeared, but its disappearance 
was followed by a flush of shame as she recalled the out¬ 
raged feelings his embrace had conjured, a flush which 
deepened at the thought that she had interrupted him in 
the act of doing the same thing to Muriel Ryder. She 
would have a talk with Miss Ryder and tell her what a 
brute, a beast, Mr. Barrington was. No! she wouldn’t, she 
hated the girl even more than she hated him! Brute and 
beast that he was for holding her like that! She supposed 
that was how he would have held Muriel had she given him 
a little more time, held anyone like that who was willing to 
kiss him with an abandon equal to his own. But he had 
one redeeming point, he had some sense of manliness, he 
hadn’t kissed her again. She owed him a little gratitude 
for that. His blows had lowered her, but not half so much 
as his embrace. A cad would have kissed her again and 
not hit her back. No, he was not a cad, and at the recollec¬ 
tion of the way she had goaded him a smile of satisfaction 
parted her lips. 

“Yes,” she murmured half aloud, “I goaded him, I 
wanted to see him roused and he didn’t disappoint me! 
Only he went too far. I suppose men always do,—that 
is, real men, when you goad them. I wonder what it is 
about Mr. Barrington that made me want to rouse him. 
I knew he’d kiss me, I saw the longing in his eyes. And 
now that I really know my own character I’ll make him 
want to kiss me again, but he never shall! No, and he’ll 
never know how exquisitely delicious his kisses were—I 

don’t mind saying it now—that is, until-” She shook 

her head as though she could not quite express her thoughts. 



26 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“But I’ll be even with you yet, Mr. Barrington. If I’m 
the kind of girl men always want to kiss it’ll be easy to 
make you want to kiss me again, and then I’ll snap my 
fingers in your face and let you see how really mean you 
are.” 

If she was made for stirring man’s passions,—for that 
was what his kisses had told her,—he would get to love 
her, she thought, when he found there was no chance of 
winning her. Men were like that, they wanted most what 
they couldn’t get. She would make him feel about her 
like that. She would make him want to kiss her again, 
make him love her, and then she would laugh at him and 
tell him she would rather not marry an overgrown stable 
boy. She knew such a thrust would get home, it was so 
untrue. She gave a little ironical laugh at the inaptness 
of the insinuation. He was tall and slim, with broad 
shoulders, and there was nothing servile about him, but 
if she couldn’t convince him that he resembled that un¬ 
couth being, well, what was the good of having a face like 
hers with that colouring and that figure? Yes, she would 
make him pay for that embrace and those blows, but more 
particularly for that embrace! 


CHAPTER VI 


«Y VONNE, my dear, I’m really cross with you! ’ ’ Mrs. 

1 de Haviland, assuming an expression of sternness at 
variance with her real feelings, closed the door of Yvonne’s 
bedroom and crossed to where her niece stood in front of 
the dressing-table fingering the cut glass stopper of a bottle 
of eau de Cologne. 

“I thought you were going to rest until tea time,” she 
continued chidingly. “And now I hear that you and 
Cleeve Barrington have been decorating the ballroom 
together.” 

“Who told you, Aunt Eloise?” Yvonne inquired in a 
slightly mutinous voice. 

Mrs. de Haviland turned and settled herself comfortably 
in an armchair before replying. Her lips were twitching 
with suppressed amusement, and until she had control over 
her feelings she did not trust herself to speak. When at 
last she did reply to Yvonne’s question her voice sounded 
almost indifferent. 

“When you didn’t come down for tea I asked Wilson 
to find you, but Cleeve Barrington said he didn’t think you 
would come as you were tired after the work you had done 
with him and he’d sent you off to bed. In fact, he rather 
conveyed the impression that he had mapped out your 
programme for you.” 

An angry flush suffused Yvonne’s face. 

“What business is it of Mr. Barrington to discuss my 
movements? I didn’t tell him I was tired; I came here 
to avoid him. He takes a great deal too much on himself! ’ ’ 

“Why, Yvonne, you’re very excited! I do hope you’re 
not going to have a headache. Let me feel your forehead.” 

Mrs. de Haviland rose as she spoke, and placing her hand 
gently on Yvonne’s brow, gave her a searching look. 

“My dear, I do believe you’ve been crying.” 

27 


28 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Yvonne turned her face away resentfully. 

“I’ve more cause to be angry, Aunt Eloise.” 

For a moment Mrs. de Haviland remained silent, striving 
to put two and two together; that something out of the 
common had happened that afternoon she had no doubt. 
What was Cleeve Barrington’s reckless banter hiding? Why 
had Muriel Ryder absented herself until sent for? Why 
that spirit of contrition when she did come? And what was 
the cause of Yvonne’s tears and her spirit of rebellion? 

“Lie down for a little, Yvonne, and I’ll stay and talk to 
you until you go to sleep. ’ ’ 

Yvonne moved reluctantly towards the bed, and sitting 
on it, drew her legs up and curled them under her. 

Mrs. de Haviland followed her and stood irresolutely at 
the foot of the bed. 

“Of course, if you’d rather not talk I’ll go.” 

Yvonne jumped up quickly, the rebellious look in her 
eyes replaced by one of repentance. 

“Come and sit down, Aunt Eloise, I am a little beast! 
But Mr. Barrington has upset me very much this after¬ 
noon.” 

“You mustn’t let him upset you, Yvonne, he’s the dearest 
man really, only so easily misunderstood. Rather curi¬ 
ously, he is the very man I want to talk to you about. 
I’ve already told you, I think, that he has been educated 
for a political career, haven’t I?” 

“Yes,” replied Yvonne with studied indifference. 

“Well, my dear, we want to get him nominated as the 
Conservative candidate, only we’ve got to get him married 
first. We’re all very fond of Cleeve, but he is so tiresome! 
He never seeks any girl’s society for long, and the reason, 
I think, is because he has too high an ideal.” Mrs. de 
Haviland paused and gave a little sigh, which developed 
into a cough as Yvonne hailed her last remark with a sound 
suspiciously like a snort. 

“He is not aware of the subtleties of our sex,” Mrs. de 
Haviland continued. “He becomes attracted, as all men 
do, by a pretty face. He takes little notice of any girl 
who hasn’t one! To a pretty face he fits an ideal character 
and proceeds to cultivate a rather too intimate acquaint¬ 
anceship. The reckless impetuousness of his nature drives 


AT LONGFIELD 


29 


him perhaps to say more than he should before he finds out 
that the face and the character don’t agree. It is the 
character he is groping after all the time, but his methods 
are wrong. They are the methods of an individual who 
judges a book by its outside cover. You’ll wonder why 
I am telling you all this, Yvonne, but I know how you love 
making people happy, and you can help to make Cleeve 
Barrington happy, if you will?” 

Indignant words rose to Yvonne’s lips, but she prudently 
checked them, while she strove to discover the meaning 
of her aunt’s remarks. Could it be that Aunt Eloise 
expected her to marry him? 

‘‘ What do you want me to do?” she demanded cautiously, 
mentally rehearsing the scathing speech she would deliver 
when her aunt disclosed the object of her visit. She sup¬ 
posed Cleeve Barrington had spoken to Aunt Eloise and 
by some subtlety, which the male sex possessed, had per¬ 
suaded her to smooth the way for a proposal. He was 
just the sort of man who could propose to half a dozen girls 
between tea and dinner time, she told herself, ‘just that 
sort which wants most what it can’t get!’ 

“Well, Yvonne, I don’t suppose you’ve noticed yet, but 
Cleeve is at the moment attracted by Muriel Ryder, and 
really I think she would make him a good wife. His mother 
likes the girl and his father looks on her, perhaps not with 
approval, but, with tolerance, the tolerance born of an 
anxiety to see Cleeve married. Colonel Barrington is am¬ 
bitious, he wants to see his son a political power in the 
world and knows marriage is essential. I know Muriel 
Ryder very well, she’s one of those girls who would not 
marry unless sure of a man’s love, and in making sure 
would waste so much time that the chances are her prize 
would slip from her grasp. A little jealousy might temper 
her caution. Judging by Cleeve’s manner, I think he is 
also a little attracted by you. It wouldn’t be a bad thing 
just to encourage him a little. He can’t marry you, dear, 
so it can’t do any harm. In a fortnight you will have gone, 
and he will have forgotten his infatuation—if he develops 
any—meanwhile it will arouse Muriel’s jealousy and then, 
when he does propose, she’ll be only too ready to accept 
him, if I am any judge of these things. You see, Yvonne, 


30 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


we’ve all got to help our own sex in these affairs, and you’ll 
get your reward for acting as a foil in the happiness you’ll 
bring to them both.” 

For a moment Yvonne did not answer. Relief that she 
had not given herself away to her aunt was quickly followed 
by a feeling of furious anger at having so misunderstood her 
words, a feeling which was considerably augmented by the 
thought of the part her aunt wished her to play. She leant 
forward, her usually pale face crimson with anger, and 
before she could check them the passionate words were out: 
“A foil to help himl I hate Mr. Barrington more than 
anyone in this world!” 

Mrs. de Haviland raised her eyebrows, hopeful that she 
would now hear the cause of her niece’s anger and tears. 
“I’m afraid, my dear, you take him too seriously.” 

“Aunt Eloise, I do nothing of the kind,” said Yvonne 
stormily. “Neither Mr. Barrington nor any other man has 
any business to commence a proposal to one girl in the 
afternoon and then turn round to me as I was leaving the 
room and say, ‘I’ll get you yet, you little she devil.’ ” 

It was well for Mrs. de Haviland’s schemes that she had 
schooled herself to hide her emotions, otherwise the pleasure 
and excitement she experienced, had they been revealed, 
might have given Yvonne some inkling of her aunt’s real 
intentions. 

“What are you talking about, Yvonne? Am I to believe 
that Cleeve has already proposed to Muriel? It couldn’t 
be Alice, for I purposely kept her with me all the after¬ 
noon.” 

“Well,” Yvonne continued indignantly, “if it wasn’t a 
proposal it was very nearly one.” 

Mrs. de Haviland’s curiosity was aroused, but she was 
too wary to put further questions. Besides, she was not 
the kind of woman to indulge a thirst for unnecessary in¬ 
formation when the iron was hot and waiting to be struck. 
She saw a hidden jealousy in Yvonne’s words, and, believ¬ 
ing that a few faggots thrown on the fire of that jealousy 
would do much, to consummate the attainment of her ends, 
she stifled her curiosity and proceeded to pile them on. 

“I’m afraid, my dear, you were very unwise not to come 
and lie down earlier. I purposely kept Alice Ryder with 


AT LONGFIELD 


31 


me so that Cleeve and Muriel could be together. It’s time 
he married, and he’s ruining his chances by not doing so. 
Eumour is much too busy with his affairs. The women’s 
committee have not yet decided to support him. They fear 
some scandal; some skeleton in the cupboard when it comes 
to an election. You know, Yvonne, dear, how our political 
opponents pry into past history.” 

She paused and looked at Yvonne’s flushed face appre¬ 
ciatively. What a little firebrand she looked with her 
angry, sparkling eyes and compressed, mutinous lips! Of 
what was she thinking? Suddenly the motherly instincts 
of Mrs. de Haviland were aroused, she seemed to sense 
the mental torture which those mutinous lips reflected, and 
the meaning of those earlier tears which anger had re¬ 
placed. Her schemes faded from her mind in the flood of 
love which welled up in her heart, and putting her arms 
round Yvonne’s neck, she kissed her tenderly. 

4 ‘I’m going now, dear, do try and get a little sleep. I 
want to be proud of my little niece to-night, she mustn’t 
come down with great big, tired eyes.” 

Yvonne threw herself on the bed and, lying down, re¬ 
laxed her body and closed her eyes. Her head seemed 
whirling with the chaos of thoughts in her mind. So this 
was the man she had idealised for all those years—a man 
who had some skeleton in the cupboard, a man whom the 
women’s committee were fearful of approving lest a scandal 
should come to light! A man from whom you only had to 
keep one sister for him to propose to the other. How she 
wished she had not overheard his words to Muriel Ryder. 
Unconsciously she allowed her mind to recall each incident 
of the afternoon and then suddenly she blushed and turned 
her face to the wall. 


CHAPTER VII 


l\/f RS. DE HAVILAND was in the reception room await- 
ing her guests when the door opened and the footman 
announced Mrs. Courtney. 

The great intimacy and companionship which existed 
between the two was evidenced by their warm greeting. 

“It’s so good of you to hurry down. I hardly expected 
it after your late arrival, Helen,” said Mrs. de Haviland, 
when she and her friend were seated, “but I do so want a 
chat with you before we’re disturbed. Yvonne arrived 
this morning, very tired after her journey, but she and 
Cleeve Barrington have met and, if there is any meaning 
in the rebellious air which she’s assumed, I should say she’s 
not absolutely indifferent to him.” 

Helen Courtney had a weak spot in her heart for Cleeve, 
and if Dame Rumour’s statements had any truth in them, 
she had once had a weaker spot for his father. 

“You say that, Eloise, as if an attachment between them 
would give you great pleasure, yet some time ago, if I 
remember rightly, you told me Yvonne was not free to 
marry. You know, dear, I never seek confidences, but 
I cannot help thinking that Yvonne has made a 
mesalliance. ’ ’ 

Mrs. de Haviland held up her hand as though about to 
speak. 

“No, Eloise, I don’t want you to confide in me. I don’t 
want to know what’s at the back of Yvonne’s trouble, but 
I can’t see why you want to drag in Cleeve Barrington; 
you know how dangerous married women are when they 
are young, attractive and unhappily married. And you 
also know Cleeve’s reckless nature. Richard says ‘he’s 
the sort of man who’d go to the devil to get anything he’d 
really set his heart on, and raise Cain if there were any 
difficulty from that quarter.’ I’ve not seen Yvonne, but 

32 


AT LONGFIELD 


33 


if she is as attractive as you make out and as high-spirited, 
he might become over-attracted. I don’t think Cleeve’s 
been attracted by anyone so far—not really attracted—and 
if he were no one can say how far he’d go. Personally I 
shouldn’t like to see him on the track of a married woman. 
‘ There’d be skin and hair flying about/ as his father is so 
fond of saying, before very long, and, Eloise, you would 
regret it all your life if he took it seriously.” 

“Helen, I can’t take you into my confidence with regard 
to Yvonne. The secret is not altogether mine; you under¬ 
stand, don’t you, dear? But believe me, Helen, though it 
may come to nothing, an attraction between Cleeve and 
Yvonne can do no harm and it might do a lot of good. If 
it does come to anything, so much the better, for left to 
herself Yvonne would never break her bonds.” 

“Eloise, I really don’t understand you! It’s most un¬ 
like you to interfere with anything which doesn’t really 
concern you.” 

“It concerns me very much, Helen. She’s very near 
and dear to me, but niece or no niece, I don’t believe in 
moral cruelty. No man has any right to so inflict his will 
on any young thing as to make her a virtual prisoner, and 
except for an occasional visit, a very occasional visit, to 
Switzerland, when she goes to stay with a trusted friend 
of the family, she is a prisoner. It’s not fair to keep any¬ 
one locked up like that. Why, Helen, this is the first time 
she has been allowed to come and stay with me. I know 
of no young girl, married or unmarried, who has to put up 
with so much and complains so little. A strong attraction 
on Yvonne’s part might lead to the breaking of the bonds. 
She is too fearful of the consequences and too adverse to 
hurting other people’s feelings to break them without help, 
and I am determined to break them if I can.” 

“And create a scandal?” 

“Yes.” 

“Eloise! are you mad? You scheme to get Yvonne down 
here and make no secret of the part you intend to play. 
Why, surely you must see how unpleasant it would be for 
you?” 

“If I succeed, as I intend to succeed, it will be more 
than unpleasant, more than one person with an honoured 


34 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


name will suffer disgrace. But, Helen, I’ve given the 
matter very careful thought, I will not stand idle and see 
Yvonne’s life wrecked.” 

‘‘But I know someone who took vows which wrecked 
her life and still held her vows sacred.” 

“Helen, my case is different. I won’t pretend to mis¬ 
understand you. When I made my promise before God 
I was old enough to know what I was doing. Yvonne was 
a child when she made hers.” 

Helen Courtney was obviously wavering though still un¬ 
convinced. How could she combat her friend’s argument? 
She had not seen Yvonne, did not know all her circum¬ 
stances, and besides, Eloise was the last person in the world 
to do anything unjust or to countenance anything really 
underhand. 

Mrs. de Haviland was quick to perceive her momentary 
advantage. She wanted Helen Courtney on her side, and 
like a capable general she called up her reserves. 

“Besides, Helen, it is not only of Yvonne I’m thinking. 
Cleeve’s future is wrapped up in all this. Both you and I 
would be very proud to have a son like Cleeve; we wouldn’t 
like to see him drifting?” 

“Drifting! Eloise, what d’you mean?” 

“Yes, Helen, drifting. Let’s be frank with one another 
for once. Did I marry the man I loved? Did you?” 

“Oh, hush, Eloise, hush!” 

“Well, do you want Cleeve to follow in our footsteps?” 

Mrs. de Haviland leant forward and almost whispered 
those words. 

“No.” 

“Well, that’s where he’s drifting. His father’s anxious 
to see him married, his mother too. The importunities of 
his father carry little weight, and his mother loves him 
too much to be over-importunate. But I know it is her 
wish to see him married, and, from a hint she dropped the 
other day, I fancy she thinks she has not long to live. 
Believe me, when Mrs. Barrington makes a serious appeal 
to Cleeve he will be moved by it. As far as I can gather, 
he’s somewhat attracted by Muriel Ryder already; a good 
enough girl, I’ll admit, and an attractive one from some 
men’s point of view, but my dear, she has been fed on the 


AT LONGFIELD 


35 


purity and sanctity of love, and though neither you nor I 
would belittle either its purity or its sanctity, a spice of the 
devil is required to preserve those qualities; Muriel Ryder 
lacks the spice.’’ 

“What! Cleeve Barrington attracted by Muriel Ryder! 
I can’t believe it, Eloise.” 

“That of itself would not matter, Helen. The danger 
does not lie in the attraction, it lies in the love which Cleeve 
bears his mother and in her wish. Now do you under¬ 
stand me ? When I last saw Mrs. Barrington I read a great 
deal more in the words of that dear lovable woman than 
she thought she had conveyed. She confides in me more 
perhaps than she confides in anyone, and I gather that she 
blames a girl whom Cleeve met at a ball five years ago for 
his disinclination to marry. Now, Helen, putting two and 
two together I have come to the conclusion that Cleeve 
met Yvonne at that ball. I know Yvonne was there and 
danced with him—if one can rely on descriptions. Now 
let’s face a few facts. If we had our lives to live again 
would we do what we have done? We say what we are 
told before the altar and blessings are bestowed on our 
troth, but in our hearts we know it’s mockery! There are 
no blessings on a loveless marriage. The altar isn’t a 
grocer’s shop. Blessing’s aren’t a shilling a pound, two 
pounds for one-and-tenpence—like jam; there’s no half 
quantities in blessings. But they’re purchasable, Helen, 
all the same, only you’ve got to pay for two pounds straight 
off with a joint purse, a purse filled to overflowing with the 
love of both. If one side of the purse contains love and 
the other something else, you don’t even get one pound 
of blessings, you get a curse, and ... ‘In sorrow shalt 
thou eat of it all the days of thy life.’ . . . Would you 
have Cleeve eat of that sorrow? No, Helen, you needn’t 
answer. We who contract these unblessed marriages may 
still have our romances, but only when we dream. We in 
the autumn of our lives get no nearer to reality than contact 
with romance. Contact with the romance of those of the 
younger generation whom we love. The greater our failure 
to attain mutual love, the more passionate is our desire 
to obtain the gift, which we have missed, for others. In 
my case I want to obtain it for Yvonne. In her happiness 


36 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


my broken romance will live again. In Cleeve’s happiness 
yours will flicker for a while.’ ’ 

“Eloise, really you surprise me more and more. Richard 
is all a husband should be! He is ... ” 

‘‘Yes, I know, Helen. If you want to deceive yourself 
you are at liberty to do so, but not to deceive me; our 
friendship forbids it. We see behind each other’s mask, 
and when the happiness of those we love is at stake I feel 
it my duty to take mine off and, Helen! oh, unwilling 
Helen! I feel it is also my duty to tear yours away. You 
loved Cleeve’s father, you cannot be indifferent to a son so 
like him. And there’s only one wife for Cleeve. No man 
could remain faithful all these years to a memory if it were 
otherwise; and as for Yvonne, she still treasures an old 
faded dance programme. Helen, we can’t adopt a com¬ 
placent attitude over a match between Cleeve and Muriel 
Ryder. It would be most unsuitable, and after my con¬ 
versation with Mrs. Barrington I determined to have 
Yvonne here if only for a few days. If there is any real 
attraction between the two, Yvonne’s bonds may be 
broken, and a more desirable alliance I cannot imagine. 
If the bonds cannot be broken, the awakening of an old 
attraction may still prevent Cleeve from making this great 
mistake, and if nothing comes of it—well, we must face 
the inevitable and be prepared to congratulate Cleeve Bar¬ 
rington and Muriel Ryder. Cleeve and Yvonne, as I’ve 
already told you, have met! I wrote this morning telling 
him Yvonne had arrived but was very tired and asked 
him to come over and help with the decorations, using 
Muriel as a bait. And would you believe it, my dear, he 
not only sent the usual polite note, but accompanied it with 
the verbal communication that he presented his compli¬ 
ments to me and suggested that ‘my niece should be put to 
bed!’ Now, Helen, you can see there’s some truth in my 
belief that Cleeve is drifting.” 

Mrs. Courtney remained silent for a few moments and 
then, speaking slowly, replied: “Yes, I’m inclined to 
agree with you, Eloise, that was a hint to keep Yvonne 
away. Does he know that he danced with her at that 
ball?” 

“As far as I can gather he neither knows who she was 


AT LONGFIELD 


37 


nor her name, but I’m convinced she was the attraction. 
I don’t know whether you’re prepared to help me in this 
matter, but I was relying on you, and I think that unless 
you do, you must countenance the drifting, for once Cleeve 
really makes up his mind he will brook no interference; 
it will be too late then. And, Helen, I have reason to 
believe he nearly proposed to Muriel this afternoon. It’s 
hardly credible, but it’s a fact.” 

“My dear, I’m not going to promise anything until I’ve 
seen Yvonne and Cleeve together. I’m not saying that 
what you’ve said hasn’t influenced me. Mind you, Eloise, 
my mask as you called it is off for the moment. If Richard 
were not all that is good and kind I’d have left him long 
ago. I hope I’ve hidden from him my true feelings. It’s 
been difficult at times but I’ve had the consolation that the 
man I loved, unlike you, did not really love me. It was 
with him only a passing infatuation. Had he loved me, 
or had I been married to a brute, Eloise, there’s no telling 
what I might have done. But to promise you my help to 
free Yvonne—well, Eloise, candidly I rather dread doing 
such a thing.” 

“You know what Richard has always said, Helen, about 
Cleeve going to the devil if his ideals were shattered? 
And as for me, you know I’d do nothing mean or under¬ 
hand. I realize the danger of interfering as well as you, 
but I want you to believe that I’m right in what I’m doing. 
Cleeve will go wrong if he is allowed to drift, and I’d 
rather he had a chance to go straight with Yvonne than 
wrong with Muriel. Whether you help me or not, Helen, 
I’ll not turn back. We all know that the course of true 
love never did run smooth, but I think the converse is 
equally true, that where there’s attraction between two 
persons so suited to each other as Yvonne and Cleeve, a 
woman’s brain can make its course so rugged that it 
develops into the love all seek and so few discover. In 
this case I’m going to make the course just as rugged as it 
is possible to make it, before it’s too late.” 

There were footsteps outside and Cleeve Barrington’s 
voice could be heard exchanging a few words with the 
footman. 

A second later, when the door opened to admit him, 


38 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Mrs. de Haviland was lying back on the chesterfield with 
an air of languor which seemed to belie the possibility of 
the conversation just ended. Helen Courtney could not 
but admire the look of frank honesty and ingenuousness 
with which she greeted Cleeve. Another knock at the door 
followed, and Colonel St. Ledger entered, who, in a some¬ 
what boisterous manner, slapped Cleeve on the back and 
promptly proceeded to entertain Mrs. Courtney with 
various racy anecdotes, which did much to shock that lady ’s 
somewhat puritanical nature. 

In a very short space of time the other diners were an¬ 
nounced, and then Yvonne put in a rather late appearance. 
At her entry the buzz of small talk, which usually accom¬ 
panies friends greeting one another on these occasions, 
perceptibly diminished, for every one felt the influence of 
her presence without being able to ascribe a reason. 

Perhaps it was to be found in the fact that Yvonne, at 
the moment, had a mysterious mixture in her bearing of 
docility and rebellion—a mixture which always attracts. 
But as she stood glancing round the room, scanning the 
many unfamiliar faces, she also conveyed an impression of 
shy aloofness which in that setting added to her girlish 
charm, and perhaps that impression entered more forcibly 
into Cleeve Barrington’s mind than any other. The look, 
however, which she gave when a moment later she con¬ 
descended to let her glance fall on him, was one of con¬ 
temptuous disdain. 

Mrs. de Haviland, fully conscious of the impression 
Yvonne was creating, smiled with an amused twinkle in 
her eyes as she noticed with no little degree of satisfaction 
that Yvonne had removed the wedding ring from her finger 
and that in its place—but not on the same finger—reposed 
an old-fashioned enamel ring with small forget-me-nots in 
diamonds. 

Helen Courtney, too, was fully conscious of the impres¬ 
sion Yvonne was creating. She soon detected that she wore 
no wedding ring and her mind was quickly made up. With 
a woman’s intuition she sensed the tension between the man 
and the girl, and giving a low chuckle to herself, she seized 
the opportunity during a moment’s babel of conversation to 
approach Mrs. de Haviland and whisper: “I think, Eloise, 


AT LONGFIELD 


39 


you have already put a few stones in their path and Ill 
help you to put a few more! I’m glad she’s not married.” 

Mrs. de Haviland gave a little laugh. 

“Yes, but it’s only the leaven working. She’s taken 
off her wedding ring!” 

Mrs. Courtney gasped with dismay. Then Yvonne was 
married, and she had promised to help to entangle Cleeve 
Barrington with a married woman! She thought of asking 
Eloise, then and there, to release her from that hastily made 
promise, but at that moment the butler entered to announce 
dinner and Mrs. Courtney left the room with the feeling 
that she had been betrayed. 


CHAPTER VIII 


TV/T RS. DE HAVILAND, gracefully attired in black char- 
meuse, stood receiving her guests. The dinner had 
passed off well, but her look of happiness $nd satisfaction 
was not due to the excellence of the cuisine,—that never 
failed in her household,—but to little things she had ob¬ 
served as the meal progressed. She felt more than ever 
proud of the rebellious, mutinous figure of Yvonne, now 
standing beside her in a dress of apple-green tulle which 
threw into relief the clearness of her complexion and accen¬ 
tuated the whiteness of her throat and shoulders. 

Mrs. de Haviland gathered additional satisfaction as she 
noticed the many glances that Yvonne commanded. They 
were glances of open admiration not unmixed with covet¬ 
ousness from the men, but critical and envious from the 
matrons, who scented a dangerous rival to their own matri¬ 
monial designs in the young beauty who stood there so 
apparently unconscious of the charm she exercised. Mrs. 
de Haviland keenly observed Yvonne’s tactics each time 
she was asked for a dance and gave a little hopeful smile 
as she heard her replies. Presently Yvonne was talking 
in an appealing manner to an elderly man who had asked 
for a dance . . . “she was afraid she hadn’t one to give,” 
. . . she passed a pretty compliment which appealed to 
the soft place in his heart, he bowed and passed on, his 
beaming face showing no sign of chagrin at the refusal he 
had sustained. Two or three younger men came up and 
her manner was even more disarming. “She had so much 
to do,” . . . “she wanted to make her aunt’s dance a big 
success,” . . . “but later on she would ... if they really 
wanted a dance, like to be asked again.” And all the 
time the light of mischief was in her eyes as she kept them 
continually trained on the approaching guests, watching 
for the tall figure and devil-may-care face of Cleeve Bar- 

40 


AT LONGFIELD 41 

rington; longing for the moment when he would ask her for 
a dance. 

Suddenly she flushed and then gave a little impatient 
stamp of the foot. She knew she had blushed, and, al¬ 
though a critical observer could only have detected a little 
added colour in her cheeks, imagined she had turned as red 
as a peony. Presently the anticipation of victory added a 
little more colour to her cheeks; Cleeve Barrington was 
approaching her in an assured, confident manner, advanc¬ 
ing gaily to meet his Waterloo. He would bow and 
mockingly ask her for the favour of a dance, she felt sure. 

She read the determination his face expressed; he would 
take her card and scribble his name down half a dozen 
times, if she gave him a chance. But she would hold on to 
that card like grim death! Not a name was written on it, 
and that exulting knowledge steadied the nervousness 
which had caused her blushes. She would scan her pro¬ 
gramme right under his eyes, tell him she was booked up, 
and then carelessly tuck the card into her dress with the 
triumphant smile of one who had put Cleeve Barrington 
in his place. 

There he was, bowing to Aunt Eloise with what Yvonne 
took to be a look of self-satisfied complacency! Now he 
was moving towards her! Her moment had arrived! His 
eyes searched hers, and then suddenly, as though cognizant 
of her intention, he turned his back on her and, giving vent 
to a scarcely audible chuckle, went straight over to Muriel 
Ryder! 

Yvonne saw him take Muriel’s card and write on it 
rapidly. She glanced at Muriel, who was looking delici¬ 
ously young and appealing in a simple white dress which 
enhanced the attraction of her golden hair and made more 
innocent the expression in her big blue eyes. With a feel¬ 
ing almost of hatred for the girl, Yvonne turned away and 
saw her aunt greeting a tall young man of about twenty- 
eight, the muscles of whose face were curiously distorted in 
an effort to maintain a jauntily poised eye-glass. It was 
Reggie Cuthbertson, whom Yvonne had met the previous 
winter when she was staying at Chamonix. She and Reggie 
had seen quite a lot of one another, and Yvonne had always 
found him amusing if not intellectually entertaining. To- 


42 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


night she particularly welcomed him as a friendly being 
among all that throng of strangers, and, as though making 
up for lost time and as a salve to her outraged feelings, 
she booked him three dances without demur. 

Presently the dance was in full swing and the dainty 
frocks of the women as they moved in rhythm to the tantal¬ 
ising throb of the music looked like a parterre of brilliantly 
coloured flowers that had come to life at the touch of a 
fairy wand. Yvonne was not long in filling up her pro¬ 
gramme and as she circled the room with one partner after 
another she could not stop the working of her brain, which 
mentally registered each time she saw Cleeve Barrington 
dancing with Muriel Ryder, and, with that subtle form of 
retaliation which comes so naturally to women, the higher 
her resentment rose the more attractive did she strive to 
make herself to Reggie Cuthbertson, taking as balm to her 
wounded pride the admiration so plainly expressed by him 
in his eyes and words. 

Her last dance with Reggie was shortly after supper, and 
as the music died away he led her to a sheltered seat in the 
Winter Garden beside a large clump of hydrangeas. She 
sat down hurriedly as her eyes caught sight of Cleeve Bar¬ 
rington smoking a cigarette some little distance away from 
them. She would not, however, have been prepared to 
swear it was Cleeve Barrington, for she and Reggie were 
sitting just under a Chinese lantern and the gloom beyond 
rendered recognition difficult, but the very thought of 
Cleeve Barrington aroused the devil in her and she reck¬ 
lessly determined to play on Reggie’s undisguised admira¬ 
tion. Had she known what was to be the outcome of this 
playing she would have curbed the tantalising strain in her 
nature, but she was in no mood to think of consequences. 
She was determined to play with fire, and the probability 
of Cleeve Barrington’s presence acted as a lighted match. 

She and Reggie had seated themselves sedately enough, 
and for a few minutes both sought an opening for conversa¬ 
tion. It was Reggie who spoke first. 

“By jove!” he said, “d’you know this is our last dance, 
Yvonne? Aren’t you going to spare me another?” 

“I wish I could, but I haven’t another to spare,” said 
Yvonne in a voice which she made purposely audible. The 


AT LONGIFIELD 


43 


words were uttered so sweetly and in such a tone of regret 
that Reggie blinked in astonishment as he gazed at her. He 
thought he saw an appealing look in her eyes, which were 
only half hidden by her curling lashes. He sighed, and 
suddenly roused himself as he realised he was in danger of 
becoming sentimental—he had been snubbed by Yvonne 
once before and was, in consequence, somewhat cautious. 
Striving to exhibit an air of jocularity he was far from 
feeling, he replied: “Well, it’s been awfully jolly seeing 
you again. Quite like old times, eh, what? Dancing to¬ 
gether and the jolly old band beatin’ away!” 

“Yes, it was an awfully pleasant surprise to see you, 
Reggie. Aunt Eloise never told me you were coming. It 
seems ages since we were at Chamonix, doesn’t it?” 

“By jove, it does. I say, old thing, you do look topping 
in that dress! Prettiest little kid in the room, that’s what 
you are.” 

Yvonne winced and devoutly hoping that the word “kid” 
had not been overheard, hurriedly replied: “Nonsense, 
Reggie dear, you don’t really mean that!” laying stress on 
the “dear” in the hope of stirring Reggie’s well-known sen¬ 
timentality. 

“Don’t I! I jolly well do! You know, Yvonne, I was 
awfully sick to find you had left Chamonix without giving 
me your address. The beastly place seemed awfully dull 
without you. I missed you horribly.” 

“Did you, Reggie? That was very sweet of you,” said 
Yvonne, laying her hand gently on his arm, now quite satis¬ 
fied at the thought that the conversation had fallen into an 
unmistakably affectionate channel. 

“Do you remember that rose you gave me one night from 
a bunch you were wearing? . . . Well, I’ve got it still.” 
Then, seeing Yvonne’s look of laughing incredulity, he 
sighed portentously and said: “It’s a fact!” 

“But it must be quite withered and falling to pieces by 
now. I’ll give you one of these carnations,” said Yvonne, 
taking a white one from the bunch she was wearing and 
leaning towards him, she began to pin it in the lapel of his 
coat, purposely prolonging her task, quite aware of the 
sense of excitement the nearness of her presence was caus¬ 
ing him. The perfume of her hair as it touched his cheek 


44 ALL THAT MATTERS 

filled Reggie with rising passion which he strove manfully 
to suppress. 

“Mustn’t let the pace get too fast,” he thought. But 
Yvonne was in no hurry to finish pinning in the flower; the 
sound of a chair being pushed back, followed by footsteps, 
caught her ears, and quickly she turned her face to Reggie. 
The witchery of her caressing smile as it momentarily 
parted her lips, which were so close to his, proved too much 
for his good resolutions, and he bent swiftly and kissed her 
just as someone drew level with them. She looked up defi¬ 
antly to see Cleeve Barrington’s towering figure. Then all 
her defiance vanished and she suddenly felt like crying as 
she saw the pained, reproachful look he gave her. She felt 
ashamed of herself, and, with that strange sense of injustice 
which sometimes moves people when their object is attained, 
she rose, and standing before the self-satisfied Reggie, ap¬ 
palled him with the cry: “How dare you do that to me! 
Is there no such thing as friendship between a man and 
woman? Must men’s horrid kisses always come in and 
spoil everything?” 

“Oh, I say, Yvonne!” said Reggie plaintively, “don’t be 
hard on a chap! I just lost my head for a moment. 
I-” 

“Is that your excuse! You just lost your head for a 
moment! Is that your only apology?” 

Reggie, nervously fingering the flower in his coat and 
unknowingly crushing it in his hand, replied: “My dear 
girl, I didn’t mean to upset you. After all, there’s no harm 
in a kiss; half the girls you meet nowadays expect you to 
kiss them and are disappointed if you don’t.” 

Holding herself erect and with increased hauteur, 
Yvonne cuttingly remarked: “And what, may I ask, have 
I ever done to make you think that I am that sort of girl? 
Have I ever implied that your kisses would be acceptable 
to me?” 

“Of, course you haven’t, but, after all, old thing, I do 
admire you a thundering lot and if I thought there was a 
chance of your marrying me I’d-” 

“Marry you!” said Yvonne scornfully. “Marry you! 
I think you’re perfectly horrible! Men always spoil every¬ 
thing; they’re all beasts without exception. You’re the 




AT LONGFIELD 


45 


second man who’s done this to me to-day. Now you know 
why I hate you all!” 

Reggie jumped up. It was no wonder she was in such 
a fury, he thought bitterly, that other man had spoilt his 
whole evening. Yvonne was not really furious with him, 
she was only giving vent to pent-up wrath. 

“And did he want to marry you?” he said. “Because 
if he didn’t I’ll jolly well go and knock his bally head off! 
Who is he?” 

Yvonne turned on him so suddenly that he fell back on 
the seat. 

“He’s someone who doesn’t add insult to injury, Mr. 
Cuthbertson! ” 

“Add insult to injury,” murmured Reggie dazedly. 
“What d’you mean?” 

“He didn’t propose marriage when he knew I resented 
his kisses,” she retorted furiously. “Why, if I had to 
take my choice, I’d rather marry the other man than you! ’ ’ 
and with that retort Yvonne walked quickly away from 
him and into the house. 

“Phew-w-w!” Reggie whistled as he mopped his brow. 
4 ‘ What a little spitfire! Devilish pretty she looked though. 
Suppose it wasn’t quite the bally thing to kiss her, but 
you know, just between me and myself, she almost seemed 
to ask for it. Seemed so jolly pleased to see me and all 
that. Gave me a lot of dances and this flower.” He 
surveyed it ruefully. ^‘And when she looked up at me 
and smiled, well, what could a fellow do?” and Reggie 
stared steadily at the ground as though awaiting a reply, 
and none being forthcoming, he rose muttering: “Jolly 
natural, that’s what I say!” and sauntered off in search 
of a drink. 

Meanwhile Cleeve Barrington, re-entering the ball room, 
felt as if the picture of Yvonne with Reggie’s arm round her 
waist and his kiss on her lips was stamped with hot irons 
on his brain. He had idealised her memory for five years! 
Five wasted years! If he had not had her image in his 
heart he would most certainly have loved and perhaps 
married one of the many charming girls he had met during 
that long interval of time. He was filled with contempt 
for himself at the thought that he had been tricked by 


46 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Yvonne’s charm of manner and beauty of face and figure 
into thinking she must bear an ideal character. Ideal! 
There was nothing ideal about a girl who could goad one 
man into kissing her in the afternoon and then lay herself 
out to entice another man to do the same thing a few hours 
later. No! He had been living in a dream all these years 
and now the dream had vanished. He would waste no 
more time on regrets and imaginings, and as soon as possible 
he would ask Muriel to be his wife. She was a good sweet 
girl, and if she accepted him it would make his mother 
happy. He experienced a fierce satisfaction at the thought 
that possibly Yvonne would be hurt to hear of his engage¬ 
ment. 

Presently something prompted him to re-visit the scene 
of “dashed hopes”; he retraced his steps, and suddenly 
started as, gazing abstractedly into the gloom of the Winter 
Garden, he perceived a slim figure seat herself with a tired, 
weary gesture. It was Yvonne. She felt very tired and 
longed for a little solitude to analyse her thoughts after 
the experiences she had been through. She could not 
remember a day quite like this and she felt rather be¬ 
wildered as she tried to recall the conversations and actions 
of the two men who had outraged her sense of pride. 

”1 suppose Reggie is quite right; half the girls nowadays 
do expect to be kissed at a dance and would be disappointed 
if they weren’t. That must be what Aunt Eloise means 
when she says that Cleeve is spoilt by everyone round here. 

“What a shame they’ve spoilt him, I should think that 
if a man like Cleeve had not been spoilt,—by kisses I 
mean,—he’d have been as true as steel. I suppose men 
just go on kissing until they find one whose kisses they like 
better than anyone else’s and then promptly propose, and 
I suppose they just hate ordinary kisses as much as we do. 
Sort of trial by ordeal, I suppose, but I call it a revolting 
way of choosing a wife. And why is it always on the 
lips? I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone, and certainly 
not on the lips. ‘No, Yvonne, that’s a lie!’ she found 
herself saying. ‘You did kiss Cleeve, you know you did, 
and it was just heaven until—until you remembered he 
had kissed Muriel.’ I hate the way they all slobber over 
him! They don’t seem like girls, with their ‘Oh, Mr. 


AT LONGFIELD 


47 


Barrington, I have enjoyed the dance, our steps do go so 
well together/ and ‘I am cross with you, Mr. Barrington, 
you’ve never asked me for a dance.’ Just as though he 
had nothing else to do but pander to their wants and amuse¬ 
ments. They’ve just spoilt him with their sloppy com¬ 
pliments ! ’ ’ 

“Oh, I’ve found you. How nice of you to be waiting 
for me here in this quiet place.” 

Yvonne’s thoughts were thus suddenly interrupted by 
the advent of Colonel St. Ledger. 

“I don’t feel like dancing. I’d much rather have a nice 
little chat with you,” he continued, “and I know you’d 
rather. By the way, I’ve just heard you’re married; is 
it true? Grass widow, eh? He! He! He!” 

Yvonne rose from the chair on which she was sitting. 
Her inclination was to leave this horrible little man, but 
she was restrained by the knowledge that he was a guest 
in her aunt’s house. 

“Oh, no! you little fascinating minx, you’re not going to 
get me to dance, I’m much too tired and I want to talk to 
you about ghosts again! He! he! he!” 

“Come along, Miss Yvonne,” stress was laid on the word 
“Miss.” “I’m not tired, in fact I was just looking for a 
partner, and Mrs. de Haviland sent me to see if you were 
getting plenty of dances,” and with this obvious lie from 
Cleeve Barrington’s lips, Yvonne, her arm imprisoned in 
his, found herself being escorted towards the ballroom. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Barrington, behaving 
like this! You know you have me at a disadvantage; I 
can’t very well create a scene in my aunt’s house! It was 
Colonel St. Ledger’s dance, and I suppose I can sit it out 
with him if I like?” 

“Yes, if you like, Miss Yvonne, but not if you don’t 
like.” 

“I think I’m quite capable of looking after myself, Mr. 
Barrington.” 

“Yes, but you’d have had to snub him and I thought I’d 
save you the trouble.” 

“No trouble, I assure you! I’ve had so much practice 
lately that it comes quite naturally.” 

“But there are some snubs which are only given at the 


48 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


expense of one’s self-respect, and I think I have saved you 
from giving one of that kind.” 

“I wish you had shown the same regard for my feelings 
earlier in the afternoon.” 

“Earlier in the evening, I suppose you mean? Well, 
I nearly did, only you looked ‘such a jolly little kid,’ if I 
may borrow an expression from Reggie Cuthbertson. ” 

They were on the point of entering the ball room as he 
finished speaking, and the band suddenly crashed out the 
opening bars of the valse “Destiny.” They both came 
to a sudden halt and Yvonne, who had just begun an effec¬ 
tive retort to his remark, relapsed into silence. It was 
the same valse they had danced to at the Three Arts Ball. 
Yvonne looked at his face, its expression suddenly changed; 
it was not quite a wince he gave, only a hardly perceptible 
expression of astonishment. For a moment or two neither 
of them made any effort to move. 

“Do you remember?” The words were whispered, but 
they rolled with an unmistakable caress from his lips* 
and her antipathy evaporated. 

“Yes.” 

“Then let us pay for the remembrance by forgetting 
something. ’ ’ 

“Is that necessary?” 

“Everything has to be paid for; every gain is something 
lost, it’s all barter in this world.” 

“And now you want to barter with me?” 

“No, with fate.” 

“And what do you want to forget?” 

“All that has happened since that dance five years ago.” 

“You want me to forget about Miss Ryder and the other 
thing?” 

“Yes, and I will forget about the jolly young bean and 
the other thing.” 

“Do you want to? Very much?” She looked up at 
him wistfully. 

“Yes, dear.” 

He bent over her and she, feeling anxious at the thrill of 
happiness she experienced, murmured: “Very well, but 
only for this dance, not for always. Do you agree?” 

“I’ll agree to anything.” 


CHAPTER IX 


\\fHEN Mrs. Courtney entered Mrs. de Haviland’s room 
* * rather late the next morning, the latter was hav¬ 
ing her breakfast in bed. 

“Good morning, Helen, you find me in an extremely 
lazy mood, my dear!” 

“I couldn’t rest, Eloise—I thought I’d feel better after 
a talk with you,” Mrs. Courtney explained, as she seated 
herself in a chair near the bed. 

“I’m glad you’ve come, I’m dying to have a chat with 
you; did you keep your eyes open last night, Helen? . . . 

Cleeve’s cards are on the table face upwards and as for 
Yvonne, she didn’t book a single dance until Cleeve ap¬ 
peared on the scene. Did you notice that little flush on 
her face? ... I did; it was ever so faint but her eyes 
told me all I wished to know; so when he came up, shook 
hands and asked me for a dance I just passed him on to my 
niece and then purposely turned my back on them. . . . 

It’s a case of the magnet and the steel, Helen.” 

Helen smiled, but it was a wan and wistful smile. 

“Yes, my dear, it is a case of the magnet and the steel, 
but mark me, Eloise, the magnet is repelling the steel.” 

“What do you mean?” Mrs. de Haviland paused in 
the act of buttering a small square of toast and stared at 
her friend in surprise. 

“Well, Eloise, in the first place Cleeve did not ask Yvonne 
for a dance, he just walked up as though he were determined 
to book the whole programme and then suddenly turned his 
back on her, and without speaking a word went straight 
over to Muriel Ryder; and, Eloise, if I’m any judge of 
expressions, there’s no love lost between Yvonne and 
Cleeve.” 

“I don’t believe that!” said Mrs. de Haviland, and it 
was evident from the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, 

49 


50 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


and the flush on her cheeks, that Helen Courtney’s very 
positive opinion was causing Mrs. de Haviland considerable 
perturbation. 

Mrs. Courtney was almost struck dumb by her friend’s 
vehement contradiction. Throughout a friendship which 
began in their schooldays Helen Courtney had rarely seen 
Mrs. de Haviland show any outward signs of agitation. 
She had known many a storm rage in Eloise’s mind and 
heart, and had admired the imperturbable serenity of 
countenance with which those storms had been met. She 
had seen her go through the ceremony of a loveless marriage 
without the quiver of an eyelid. 

A vision of Eloise standing on the spacious lawn of an 
old-world garden receiving the congratulations of the many 
friends who truly loved her flashed on Helen Courtney’s 
mind. ... A tall girlish figure in white satin, acknowl¬ 
edging with a smile congratulations which were knife 
thrusts in her heart. ... A virginal queen by the side of 
a short round figure of a man about forty, with an un¬ 
healthily pale face, out of which shone light brown menac¬ 
ing eyes outlined by sandy coloured lashes. 

She recalled the surprise visit she had paid her friend on 
the honeymoon and another vision was pictured in her 
mind. A girl bowed and bent; her head propped up on 
her left arm and hand, a half-written letter on the table, 
the pen held loosely between her fingers and hot, bitter 
tears which could not be checked, trickling down her 
cheeks. It was Eloise, but it was Eloise alone with her 
grief, her spirit temporarily broken by the acts of a cruel 
fate. She had just made her sacrifice, and it was for her 
mother’s health and comfort she had made it. Helen 
Courtney had guessed the purport and destination of that 
letter, and had since heard a whisper that it was still 
treasured by a great-hearted man who had been too poor 
to claim her friend’s love at the time. 

Helen Courtney recalled how, noiselessly, she had 
entered Eloise’s room, how, noiselessly, she had left, and 
remembered how when she saw Eloise a few hours later she 
was again the friend she knew, the charming sweet Eloise 
of happy countenance. 


AT LONGFIELD 


51 


Suddenly Mrs. Courtney’s reflections were brought to 
an end, for almost as quickly as Mrs. de Haviland’s agita¬ 
tion had arisen, it subsided, and with a voice now well 
under control she commenced to speak. 

“Forgive me, Helen, for contradicting you like that; I 
was upset by the thought of the possibility of another 
tragedy,” and then as though desirous of putting away an 
unwelcome mood, she turned her head towards the window 
and stared at the garden thoughtfully, a frown wrinkling 
her forehead. 

There was an oppressive silence, a silence which Helen 
hesitated to break, and so she waited patiently for the out¬ 
come of her friend’s thoughts. In those few brief moments 
she realised that Yvonne’s future was a part of her friend’s 
life, realised that Eloise was coming to a decision which 
might alter for ever the role she intended to play. 

Quietly, and as though in another world, Mrs. de Havi- 
land spoke, very deliberately and slowly. 

“Yes, Helen, I do believe it, because you have said so. 
I would not have been so upset over what you have told 
me, only I’m fighting against time. I’ve told you that 
Cleeve very nearly proposed to Muriel yesterday. In itself 
that’s nothing, a miss is as good as a mile, as the saying 
goes, and if time were not a factor in the case I should 
regard the incident merely as a stone in the love path 
of these two young lives, which in the long run would 
do more good than harm. But now I’m not so sure; I 
had a long talk with Doctor Mornington last night. I’m 
afraid Mrs. Barrington is very seriously ill, and from what 
he told me I gather that her son’s future is preying on her 
mind. She is really anxious at last to see him married. 
Colonel Barrington is going to have a serious talk with 
Cleeve on the subject, and for all I know may have already 
had it. That would account for Cleeve’s indifference to 
Yvonne; for if he thought a marriage with Muriel Ryder 
would prolong his mother’s life by one minute, he would 
marry her regardless of the consequences.” 

“I don’t see why that should upset you; you expected 
antagonism, it was part of your scheme. We were to put 
stones in their path,” said Helen Courtney disjointedly, 
seeking to minimise the result of her rather hasty summing 


52 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


up of the situation, a summing up she now somewhat 
regretted. 

“We were, Helen, but circumstances alter cases. Cleeve 
may now know his mother’s condition; he’s probably 
being driven by the love he bears her and it’s just possible 
he has already made up his mind. If so, Yvonne has come 
on the scene too late and my dream, Helen, will remain a 
dream. I’ve made a mistake, a great mistake; I didn’t 
reckon on events moving so quickly, I thought there’d be 
at least a few uneventful days before Cleeve brought things 
to a head. After my talk with Doctor Mornington I 
realised I had not as many hours, and now after what 
you’ve told me I feel my stones have raised a formidable 
barrier between Cleeve and Yvonne.” 

“Nonsense! Eloise, you’re taking the events of last 
night too seriously.” 

“I’m afraid you won’t say that when you hear me out. 
Do you know I hinted to Yvonne that Cleeve had a past?” 

“You what?” 

“Yes I did, I hinted at some scandal and all that sort of 
thing. ’ ’ 

“Whatever for? My dear Eloise, I really can’t believe 
you!” 

“Well, Helen, I did it, I wanted to make Yvonne 
interested in Cleeve before he advanced too far with Muriel. 
You know nothing more disgusts a young girl full of animal 
spirits, as Yvonne is, than a goody-goody young man, and 
I was sure that within a week she would find out that the 
big stone of scandal I deliberately placed in their path was 
a very inoffensive pebble. I gathered from a chat I had 
with Yvonne, as I’ve already told you, that Cleeve was 
on the point of proposing to Muriel when Yvonne came on 
the scene, and viewing the case as desperate, I thought a 
little antagonism between Cleeve and Yvonne would 
quickly ripen the attraction of five years ago into something 
else. A real love, Helen, for if I’m certain of anything on 
this earth it is that those two are on the brink of a really 
true and great love. You may say what you like, but in 
normal circumstances the more obstacles placed in the 
path of such a love the more they test what should be 
tested. If time and Cleeve’s recklessness were not against 


AT LONGFIELD 


53 


me I'm sure my plan would have succeeded, and last night 
I was happy in the knowledge that the more Yvonne 
repelled him the more Cleeve threw discretion to the winds. 
About eleven o’clock when she refused to go in to supper 
with him on the grounds that ‘Reggie Cuthbertson might 
ask her,’ he went straight to Jenkins and asked if there 
were any spare rooms. Jenkins told him he would enquire, 
and Cleeve said: ‘Don’t trouble, but send Griffiths home.’ 
I overheard this and, jumping to the conclusion that Cleeve 
intended to stay the night, I at once told my maid to give 
instructions to have the room opposite Colonel St. Ledger’s 
made ready. 

“Then, my dear Helen, when all the guests had gone 
Cleeve Barrington turned up just as Yvonne and I were 
having a quiet chat before retiring. He told me he couldn’t 
get his ‘blessed car to start.’ I pretended surprise, and 
told the footman to order my car round at once. My dear, 
you should have seen his face!” Mrs. de Haviland 
chuckled at the recollection. “It was instantly clouded 
with disappointment, but only momentarily. Apparently 
without an effort he banished the cloud and began talking 
to Yvonne as though the prospect of being taken home, 
after all, was the greatest relief in the world. I was very 
amused and waited expectantly to see how he would take 
Jenkins’ announcement that my chauffeur had also gone 
home and that Mr. Barrington’s car was not in the garage. 

“Cleeve was thoroughly on his guard, not a flicker of an 
eyelid, just a few sentences in a bored, apologetic tone,— 
‘No wonder he couldn’t get his car to start if it wasn’t there; 
he was awfully sorry for the trouble he was giving, but he 
could sleep on the sofa or the billiard table, or anywhere.’ 
I pretended to fall in with this arrangement, we bade him 
good-night and I took Yvonne off to bed and heard her lock 
her door. Then I went downstairs and met Cleeve going 
towards the billiard room looking full of thought. My 
dear Helen, I don’t know what possessed me, I suppose it 
was the desire not to let Cleeve know I’d made any prepara¬ 
tions for his stay. I told him I’d taken Yvonne to my 
room and he could occupy hers. Another complication! 
For the same reason I had not told my maid earlier in the 
evening that Cleeve was likely to occupy the room, and she 


54 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


thinking it was for Miss Ryder, who stayed here the last 
time we had a dance, put out one of my nightdresses on 
the bed, and what do you think? I’m told Cleeve has just 
gone and the nightdress is missing!” 

“But, surely,” said Mrs. Courtney in a somewhat shocked 
voice, “you don’t think Cleeve has run off with your night¬ 
dress?” 

“That is exactly what I do think. I thought its dis¬ 
appearance was a good sign, but after what you tell me 
I can only conclude he wore it and has taken it away 
to have it washed and returned. There was a rather 
unpleasant scuffle last night. I was awakened by the 
sound of loud talking; I slipped on my dressing gown 
and had almost reached the end of the corridor when I 
realised that an altercation was taking place between Cleeve 
and Colonel St. Ledger. I was about to ask what was the 
matter when I heard Cleeve say: ‘You blackguard!’ and 
Colonel St. Ledger retort: ‘Blackguard or not, kissing 
goes by favour, my friend. I take all I can get in this life.’ 
I think from the tone of his voice he was not quite sober. 
Cleeve replied: ‘Then here’s something else for you to 
take!’ and if you had heard him speak you would have 
realised the temper he was in. There was a sound of 
scuffling, and a little later Colonel St. Ledger was shot out 
into the passage. I didn’t know what to do, I stood still 
for a few minutes, and then as things quieted down I 
returned to my room.” 

“I suppose you thought that Cleeve’s attraction for 
Yvonne had something to do with his wanting to stay the 
night, and connected Cleeve’s treatment of Colonel St. 
Ledger as acts in defence of her?” 

“Yes, Helen, I thought it was because he wanted to be 
near Yvonne, and see a little more of her in the morning, 
but if he didn’t dance with her it can’t be, can it? As for 
the row with Colonel St. Ledger, well, you know what he 
is, and I thought he might have said something to Yvonne 
which Cleeve resented.” 

Helen Courtney reflected. A little while ago, overcome 
by her friend’s distress, she had sought to belittle the 
conclusions which had forced themselves on her (Mrs. 
Courtney’s) mind; now in the light of what Mrs. de Haviland 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


55 


had said, she saw the futility of her effort. Her remark 
that “There was no love lost between those two” had 
only brought to a head conclusions which sooner or later 
Eloise would have drawn. She had all the material for 
arriving at them, only her hope, her dream had clouded 
the issue. To attempt to buoy up that hope, that dream, 
would be mistaken kindness; as Eloise had said, time was 
against her, and now facts had to be faced. 

“Well, Eloise, I don’t think Yvonne had anything to do 
with it. Colonel St. Ledger was very rude to Muriel Ryder 
last night.” 

“Rude to Muriel Ryder! What makes you think that?” 

“1 can’t give you any details, but I overheard a few 
words which passed between Reggie Cuthbertson and 
Cleeve, and I fancy I heard Muriel Ryder’s name men¬ 
tioned. I caught a glimpse of Cleeve’s face at the time and 
I think it gave even Reggie a fright. I didn’t hear very 
much, but I heard Cleeve say something about setting a 
trap and giving the Colonel a ‘damn good hiding for speak¬ 
ing to any girl like that.’ ” 

Mrs. de Haviland was too agitated to speculate upon 
Colonel St. Ledger’s misdeeds. Her brain was reeling as 
she grasped the sole fact that mattered. 

“Oh, Helen, I see my mistake now. I should have 
taken Cleeve into my confidence from the first, but I 
couldn’t. Believe me, Helen, I couldn’t! Both Cleeve 
and Muriel hinted to me last night that they’d heard 
Yvonne was married, and instead of politely telling Muriel 
to mind her own business and Cleeve the truth, I fenced 
with them and changed the conversation as soon as I could 
manage it. Now when Cleeve finds out I haven’t been 
open with him he’ll put it all down to Yvonne. I’ve made 
one mistake after another. I wanted the attraction to 
come first and the explanation afterwards, but all I’ve done 
is to drive the attraction away. I see it all now. I see 
on what a treacherous foundation I have erected my castle 
of hope. I never reckoned on their not dancing together, 
I never reckoned on the sudden aggravation of Mrs. 
Barrington’s illness, or on Colonel St. Ledger putting 
Muriel Ryder in a position to make a claim on Cleeve’s 
chivalry. Everything seems against me, Helen. The very 


56 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


antagonism between them on which I relied so much has 
been fatal to my dream.’’ 

These despairing utterances were in themselves eloquent 
of Mrs. de Haviland’s agitation, but more evidence was 
forthcoming of the stunning blow she had received. She 
rose from the bed and, feeling her way blindly towards her 
dressing room, opened the door and passed through. 


CHAPTER X 


F\AWN broke; the hands of the clock moved slowly round ; 
^ the figure on the bed lay inanimate. Her healthy, 
regular breathing and the ticking of the clock were the only 
sounds to be heard. Slowly the clock hands moved, a little 
click broke the monotony in the room and all was silent 
again, save for the ticking and the breathing. Followed a 
slight hum faintly resembling a bee on the wing and then, 
in low dulcet tones, the clock struck eight. . . . Monotony 

still claimed the room . . . monotony and peace. The 

drawn blinds resisted the day, but the sun, as though 
determined to defeat the efforts of man, searched those 
windows for the weak joints in their armour, found them 
as it rose above the trees and sent dazzling beams slantwise 
across the room. . . . Still the sleeper slept. 

‘‘Go away! go away!” ticked the clock, but the angry 
sun would have none of it. It penetrated little pin points 
in the blinds and, finding these of no avail, called its sister 
to its aid. But the breeze responded lazily; it bellied 
the blinds just once and ceased its efforts as if it, too, were 
not awake; it shook the leaves just once and then, as 
though it had turned over it went to sleep again. An 
hour sped. Come! . . . Come! . . . Nine times the 

clock repeated it. The sleeper turned, and watched abstract¬ 
edly the motes floating in and out of the sunbeams. Her 
hands were clasped behind her head and one sleeve of her 
night-dress slipped back, revealing her white sloping 
shoulder. She rubbed her eyes again, stretched herself, and, 
as her bosom rose, the outline of her figure showed clearly 
through the shell pink crepe de chine. 

She turned towards the clock but sleep still filled her 
eyes. The hands had disappeared; the clock was nothing 
but an outline. She rubbed her eyes once more, this time 
vigorously. The sun swore, and, as if in response to her 

57 


58 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


acts or frightened by the anger of the sun, the breeze 
awoke, really awoke! The leaves trembled violently, 
rustled, remained perfectly still and then fluttered again 
as the wind burst into a gust, blowing in the blinds with 
such force that the curtains fell back defeated. In the 
flood of light which followed the clock found its hands. 

“Five minutes past nine. Good! I’ll just turn over; 
I’ve plenty of time yet.” 

“No time! ... No time! . . .” ticked that clock. 

For a few seconds the sleeper lay as she had turned. 
What was the clock saying? ... No time! No time! 
She turned again, rubbed her eyes resolutely and was awake. 
What peace! . . . What peace! . . .Was the clock 

mocking her?, Where was the peace? There was no 
peace, she knew it; there was only peace in sleep. 

The awakening brought it all back, all the happenings of 
the previous night. The great unhappiness of it all. She 
had been determined to teach Cleeve Barrington a lesson, 
but she had taught herself one as the result of meeting a 
will stronger than her own, and as the recollection of her 
failure struck her senses a cloud of despair overwhelmed 
her, and a look crept into her eyes which had not been 
there yesterday. A look of wonder and disbelief. 

“Men are a problem,” she murmured with a sigh, and 
then catching a glimpse of the clock she added: ‘ ‘ They 
only made you, to remind us that any time is kissing 
time.” “Go on! ... Go on! ... ” the clock replied 
teasingly. “Go on! Go on! you say? ... Yes, I will go 
on, I’ll just tell you what they are, I’ll tell you every¬ 
thing. They’re regular savages, born hunters from the day 
they open their eyes, and in affairs of the heart, wanton, un¬ 
principled spoilers. I’m sure they only hunt and shoot to 
keep their savage instincts alive. Their real prey is woman, 
and judging by the way they behave, I don’t know how 
they ever agree to the marriage laws; how in their omnipo¬ 
tence they ever allow those laws to operate. Lordly things 
who could, untrammelled by social restrictions, go on pick¬ 
ing and choosing as long as their hunting instincts last— 
that is, when they possess the attractions of their primitive 
manhood, clean cut athletic bodies, ruthless savage determin¬ 
ation and . . . gentle caressing ways when their love and 


AT LONGFIELD 


59 


chivalry are stirred. But I’m sure this sort of man doesn’t 
want to go on picking and choosing, that is, he wouldn’t 
if one could just creep into his heart and turn everything 
in it upside down. But of course one would have to do it 
thoroughly. It would have to be such an upset that he’d 
have his work cut out for the rest of his days straighten¬ 
ing things out again. Of course, all men aren’t like this, 
you wise old clock! Some are half women and spend their 
time grousing because the other kind gets the plums. These, 
when they are married, seem to regard the outer walls of 
their dwellings as the confines of the world and gradually 
drift into a life of bored domesticity. I suppose their per¬ 
verted hunting instincts are satisfied by ruling as bullies in 
their little domains and crushing out all romance until noth¬ 
ing is left but the bullying. Or else the limits of their world 
are prescribed for them by dominant helpmates, and then 
they themselves are crushed and bullied, and I suppose find 
some sport (when opportunity occurs) in trapping under 
cover of darkness. I think Colonel St. Ledger must be one 
of the latter. I wonder if he has any real sporting instincts 
at all? Last night at dinner he questioned me about the lo¬ 
cation of my room and his face reminded me of a snail that 
pokes its head out when there’s no danger, or a Pekingese 
which only barks when the other dog is tied up. Mr. Bar¬ 
rington was sitting opposite and I saw his face getting 
blacker and blacker. I don’t know what possessed me; I 
wanted to go round and whisper in his ear that I hated 
the little beast, and then something in his eyes made me 
furious, a sort of look of distrust. So when Colonel St. 
Ledger squeezed my hand under the table I forced myself 
to smile sweetly, otherwise I would have been tempted to 
pick up a fork and jab him! 

“Mr. Barrington was talking to Muriel Ryder at the time, 
pretending to be most ‘empresse;’ it must be pretence, be¬ 
cause he can’t have a ‘grande passion’ for two girls in the 
same afternoon, but he stopped speaking suddenly and his 
mouth closed like a spring trap. 

“Then after glaring at Colonel St. Ledger he gave me a 
look which I’m sure he thought would frighten me, but it 
didn’t, it only made me want to touch his eyelashes! Be¬ 
sides, Mr. Barrington has nothing to do with me and it’s no 


60 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


business of his to try and limit my amusements. So I just 
looked at him with a frank smile and then turned to Colonel 
St. Ledger and said in a voice loud enough for Mr. Barring¬ 
ton to overhear: ‘Why do you want to know where my 
room is?’ I’m sure Colonel St. Ledger is a pekingese, for 
I could hardly hear what he said in reply. I think it 
was something about married men being so discreet in 
‘affaires du coeur.’ The end I didn’t quite catch, at any 
rate I didn’t understand its meaning. I thought Mr. Bar¬ 
rington heard it though, so just for fun I told the snail 
that my room was opposite his and I looked quite 
‘radieuse’ when he told me that if I would leave my door 
unlocked he’d come and ‘hear my prayers.’ I think 
Muriel Ryder must have been asking Mr. Barrington a 
question, but there was no need for him to answer the way 
he did. I wonder if he’s in the habit of forgetting his 
manners, for I heard him say ‘I’m damned if I know,’ 
and he said it so rudely that the Ryder girl blushed. I 
told Colonel St. Ledger that I thought someone was paying 
a great deal too much attention to our conversation, but 
I don’t think he heard me, for he repeated his remark about 
my door. Then I told him I always locked it, and he said 
I was wasting opportunities and that affairs of the heart 
were much more thrilling when one was young. What 
that has to do with doors beats me!—that the war had 
altered everything, and everyone ‘went to the devil these 
days,’ and that there was no chance of seeing naughty 
ghosts with the door shut. 

“I told him I didn’t believe in ghosts of any kind, but 
that if there were a chance of seeing them I’d leave my door 
wide open every night and put a chair against it to keep 
it ajar. I happened to look across the table as I spoke and 
caught Mr. Barrington staring at me in astonishment, so I 
just thought I’d teach him a lesson for eavesdropping and, 
giving Colonel St. Ledger another adoring look, I said: 
‘I suppose you soldiers take all sorts of risks?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Yvonne,’ he replied, ‘we carry our lives in our 
hands and wear our hearts on our sleeves.’ 

“I hated the little pig for calling me Yvonne and for the 
leer which accompanied his silly words, but he’s too con- 


AT LONGFIELD 61 

temptible to be snubbed, so I didn't snub him, I just smiled 
instead. 

“Mr. Barrington immediately bad a choking fit and 
brought his glass down with such force on the table that 
it broke and cut his finger. Oh, how I hate him for holding 
women so cheap! If he's in love with that Ryder girl 
why take any interest in what Colonel St. Ledger says to 
me? I’m a little beast I know, for it's nothing to do with 
me, only I hate men who can pretend. Colonel St. Ledger 
offered his handkerchief to bind the cut but Mr. Barrington 
just ignored him. Presently I had a little choking sensa¬ 
tion in my throat, I could see it was a deep cut, for after 
a few minutes his handkerchief was quite red; I think he 
must have seen I was a little upset. 

“Before the glass broke, judging by the way he was 
looking at me, I was sure he hated me as much as I hate 
him, but when I told him as I glanced at his hand that I 
was sure Aunt Eloise would excuse him, he looked down at 
his handkerchief and put his hand under the table, and 
later on, when no one was noticing, he slipped away and 
gave me a rather sad look and smiled. He does look nice 
when he smiles; I think that must be why I agreed to 
forget, that and Reggie's silly behaviour! Men can be 
nice when they like, but, had I known that Mr. Barrington 
only asked me to ‘forget' because he had no one else to 
dance with, I’d rather have put up with Colonel St. Ledger's 
silly talk. Fancy any man thanking a girl the way he did! 
Cool wasn't the word for it! . . . When we'd had such a 
heavenly dance together. I’m sorry I gave in so easily, 
but never mind, I’ll make him regret it yet!" 

She sat up in bed, her brow puckered in a thoughtful 
frown. Then, as her mind worked, a brilliant idea sud¬ 
denly occurred to her and her eyes sparkled with anticipa¬ 
tion. . . . She would dress quickly and go into the rose 
garden and pluck roses right under his window! . . . 

The clock smiled as it ticked, and just as she was leaving 
the room it chuckled . . . ten times it chuckled! 


CHAPTER XI 


1V/T EANWHILE on that morning after the dance, before 
Yvonne was so busy with her thoughts, and prior to 
Mrs. de Haviland ’s conversation with Helen Courtney which 
ended with such great distress, Cleeve Barrington awakened 
at his usual early hour. 

“I suppose William will come along with my clothes,” 
he murmured sleepily to himself. “If he doesn’t I’ll have 
to walk home in my evening clothes or Yvonne’s night¬ 
dress,” at which latter thought he suddenly became wide 
awake and an expression difficult to define stole over his 
face. Yvonne’s nightdress! Momentarily his mind was 
on that, his eyes showed it, but his mouth remained firm, 
the compression of his lips did not relax. “Fancy that 
despicable old deprave”—he was now thinking of Colonel 
St. Ledger—“behaving like a Bond Street cad! I was 
a ‘bewitching little devil’ was I? Perhaps I was until 
his lips came in contact with my stubbly cheek! I hope 
he ’ll carry a black eye for a day or two! I’m sure I landed 
one. It’s those old beasts who by their acts and insinua¬ 
tions make flappers the precocious things they are, while 
at the same time they talk airily about their knowledge of 
the world as though that phrase hides their muddy, sordid 
thoughts, their flabby, wrinkled cheeks, their evil, smiling 
mouths, quite unconscious that every decent minded man 
and woman holds them in nothing but contempt for their 
ridiculous efforts to persuade the immature that the virility 
of their manners and conversation is a perpetual antidote 
to senile decay! Hell take the brutes! 

“I wish to God Yvonne had been here; it would have 
taught her better than to encourage unhealthy conversa¬ 
tions with wrinkled dirt. Unless she . . . But that’s 
impossible,” he ejaculated aloud. “Quite impossible! 

62 


AT LONGFIELD 63 

Any rate, I’m not going to believe she saw what the beast 
was driving at.” 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in.” 

“Good morning, Mr. Cleeve.” 

He was still “Mr. Cleeve” and not “sir” to his servant, 
William Barker. Though eight years older than Cleeve, 
there was more than an element of companionship between 
the two. William had played no small part in Cleeve 
Barrington’s early outdoor life. They had ridden and 
played together. As a boy, it had been Cleeve’s ambition 
to knock the ball over the pavilion as William sometimes 
did in cricket, when he got the chance. As a youth he 
admired William’s stable vocabulary; as a youth he set 
himself to outvie William’s fearless riding and even when 
Cleeve surpassed William’s tuition, the former lost none of 
his respect for the hero of his youth who had done so much 
to develop his healthy manhood. While William, on his 
part, gained in the pride of successful tutorship what little 
he lost in prestige. 

“You’re up early, William; how did you know I was 
here ? ’ ’ 

William put down the valise he was carrying before reply¬ 
ing. “Well, Mr. Cleeve, Griffiths came round last night and 
said you had sent him home, so he thought I’d better bring 
round a change for you.” 

“Anything else?” asked Cleeve, who noticed an amused 
smile on William’s face as he proceeded to lay out the 
clothes he had brought. 

“No, Mr. Cleeve, I’ve no other news.” 

“News! Who’s talking about news? You know what 
I meant. ... I’d like to hear how Griffiths put it.” 

William kept his head down, ostensibly in an effort to 
attach a collar to the back of a shirt. 

“Well, he did say he wondered what the game was this 
time.” 

“And what did you say?” 

“Oh, I said nothing; you see, Mr. Cleeve, I didn’t know 
you were sleeping in a lady’s nightdress.” 

Cleeve burst out laughing; he had momentarily forgotten 
about the nightdress. 


64 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“I suppose if Griffiths had known he’d have said some¬ 
thing ? ” 

“Well, we are rather friendly, as you know, Mr. Cleeve.” 

Cleeve was well aware of the friendship between William 
and Griffiths, he knew they often discussed his affairs and 
was so tolerant of it that William seldom failed to satisfy 
his master’s curiosity. 

“I suppose if you had known you and Griffiths would 
have had a fine old laugh about it. Well, you can pack it 
up and ...” Cleve hesitated, for the first time he noticed 
it was torn across the chest. 

“Yes, Mr. Cleeve, I’ll get it washed and repaired and see 
it’s sent back.” 

“Oh, no, William, we’ll keep it, just as it is. Kind of 
trophy, you see.” 

###### 

An hour later Cleeve Barrington, his breakfast finished, 
his servant gone, was walking idly along the well-mown 
grass path, past the lily pond and the rock garden in the 
direction of the sundial in front of a clump of firs on a little 
rising knoll, where there was a garden seat. 

He had left Swanston House intending to go home, but 
that seat attracted him. He liked that knoll with the well 
wooded slopes and the miniature valleys with their mead¬ 
ows beneath, and the early morning sun shining on the lake 
in the distance seemed to invite him to bask in its warmth 
and revel in the beauty of the surrounding scene. 

Seating himself, he filled his pipe. What a beautiful 
world it was, the freshness of the morning seemed to call 
youth to action and to offer peace to old age. He was in a 
lazy mood after the excitement of the night before, a 
dreaming mood, and he allowed himself to dream. . . . 
Time slipped by, he knew not how fast, but presently, as 
it appeared to him, down the path he had traversed he 
saw a slim graceful girl with chestnut hair and violet eyes, 
attired in an old-fashioned evening dress of five years ago. 
The faint notes of a band which had almost passed out of 
recollection were borne to his ears, and that figure stood 
still where he had first seen it as though wondering from 
whence the music came. The familiarity of the opening 
bars seemed to give the day-dream a reality it did not 


AT LONGFIELD 


65 


possess. He seemed to leave himself, smoking that pipe, 
to the contentment of the surroundings, while a part of 
him, a younger part, sped with the fleetness of the wind to 
the little spot on that pathway which was holy. 

“Go on, Cleeve! Go on! They’re overtaking you!” he 
cried to that other part of him, the other self, for it was 
a race. From all sides other men joined in, young and old, 
the tails of their coats flying in the wind, all rushing to that 
spot. He saw that other self turn as the approaching, 
rapid footfalls, ever drawing nearer and nearer, fell upon 
his ears; he, the other self, was losing his lead, falling 
behind just when the violet eyes were turned in his direction 
with mute appeal. 

“Go on, you fool!” he shouted to that other self, and 
the words were hardly out of his mouth when the music 
took shape. It was “ Destiny! ” They were crowding round 
her! they were clamouring for a dance! and she, that 
girlish figure, put one arm to her face as if to blot out her 
fears, and waved the other blindly with an appealing ges¬ 
ture. In one bound that otl^er self was at her side, he 
pushed the crowd aside, too out of breath to speak; he just 
clasped her in his arms. Thank God he had won! Then 
the crowd melted away, they were alone, she and he; down 
the path they tripped to the rhythm of the music, circling 
and circling, drawing closer at every step. Lost to the 
world in his reverie, the pipe slipped from his fingers; that 
other self was looking with rapture at his prize, the violet 
eyes were the same, the chestnut hair the same, only the 
figure was a little fuller, more alluring. “Oh, Yvonne, 
why don’t you come to me!” 

The pipe fell on the crazy-stone pavement and gave him 
a start. He rubbed his eyes, was he still dreaming? Did 
that white knitted frock, clinging so lovingly to a bosom 
which still proclaimed its youth, really clothe the idol of 
his day-dream? He was back to earth again, and pulling 
out his watch, he saw it was ten o’clock. 

He rose at once and with swinging elastic strides retraced 
his steps, hurrying to the rose garden on to which the 
windows of the room he had occupied opened out. It was 
no trick of his imagination; some one was in the rose 


66 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


garden, the dainty trim figure he had seen was that of 
Yvonne and she now stood with her back partly turned 
towards him, studying a rose she had just plucked. As 
he watched her she stooped and, plucking a tiny daisy, laid 
the rose at her feet. With a feeling of envy he watched 
her raise the small flower to her lips and kiss it. Watched, 
with an ironical twist of his lips, while she pulled the petals 
one by one and let them flutter to the ground. How 
typical her actions were; the red rose proclaiming its love 
lay unheeded at her feet, while a common daisy attracted 
her. She had kissed it as if anxious to create its love and 
no sooner had it nestled against her lips, so thankful for 
her favours, than she was pulling it to pieces. Just as 
she favoured men and then stabbed them in the heart, only 
he would not mind her plucking him if he were a flower 
if she would only give him one kiss of her own free will 
like that. 

Her acts recalled the biblical story of Samson and Delilah, 
and he could not suppress the thought that if Delilah were 
anything like Yvonne, Samson was more entitled to envy 
than deserving of pity. 

For some time he remained hidden, peeping round the 
yew hedge which sheltered the rose garden, until the last 
petal had been plucked and he saw with fascinated eyes 
that she carelessly threw away the bare stem with its 
stripped golden button. He supposed most women were 
like that—lavished favours on those who momentarily ap¬ 
pealed to them and, when they had winged and wounded, 
threw them aside with the heartless feeling that wantons 
have for those who have ceased to interest. Then he found 
himself comparing Yvonne with Muriel. Muriel was the 
sort of girl who would cherish love to eternity, but he had 
an unvoiced feeling that he would rather have one kiss 
given in a moment’s love from Yvonne than all the kisses 
of a lifetime from Muriel or anyone else. 

Suddenly with a feeling of jealous anger he recalled the 
scene he had witnessed the previous night. Well, if she 
could give a kiss to a backboneless being like Reggie Cuth- 
bertson he would make her give him one. 

He watched her stoop to pick up the rose and as she 


AT LONGFIELD 67 

held it to her face, to breathe in its perfume, he turned 
the corner and walked up to her. 

“Hello, Miss Yvonne!” he called carelessly. 

Yvonne slowly faced him and then, very sweetly and 
with a little innocent smile, replied: “Why, good morning, 
Mr. Barrington. ’ ’ 

“Why, what’s this, Miss Yvonne?” said Cleeve with 
mock severity. “Who’s been pulling a daisy to pieces?” 

“I have,” Yvonne admitted demurely, but her eyes were 
veiled by their long lashes. “I’ve been playing ‘He loves 
me, he loves me not!’ ” 

“Oh, and what happened?” He looked fiercely at her, 
making no attempt to hide the chagrin he felt. 

“Why he loves me very, very much. In fact, Mr. Bar¬ 
rington”—and here she raised her eyes to his—“I think 
I might say he would die for me.” 

‘ 1 And does the jawly young bean wag his tail ? For that’s 
all he’s fit for, I should say,” he exclaimed savagely. 

Yvonne did not reply; she looked up at him with a sim¬ 
ulated air of reproach and he, disconcerted by the unex¬ 
pectedness of her softened expression, unconsciously drew 
nearer. 

“Are you very fond of him?” 

She assumed a puzzled frown and walked slowly towards 
a seat at the further end of the garden hidden behind some 
laurel bushes. Cleeve followed and stood in front of her 
as she sat down. 

“Are you very fond of him?” he persisted. 

“Won’t you sit down?” She gave the invitation in a 
soft, caressing voice, and laying her hand on his arm replied 
hesitatingly: “I—don’t—know. You’ve no idea how 
much I’ve thought about it, Mr. Barrington, but I really 
can’t understand my feelings.” 

“Then you don’t love him,” he decided emphatically. 
“You couldn’t help understanding your feelings if you 
did.” 

Yvonne looked up at him with admiration in her eyes. 

“What a lot of experience you must have had, Mr. Bar¬ 
rington, I envy you!” 

She continued to stare at him relentlessly, while a flood 


68 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


of colour rushed to his cheeks and mounted until it van¬ 
ished in the thick hair above his forehead. 

“I should imagine you are not without experience your¬ 
self after the exhibition you gave last night!” he retorted. 

Yvonne dropped her eyes and moved imperceptibly nearer 
to him. 

“Please forgive me, Mr. Barrington,” she murmured 
softly, “I am very tactless, I know, but can’t we talk for 
a little while without quarrelling?” 

As she finished speaking she looked up at him appeal¬ 
ingly. 

A puzzled expression gathered in his eyes. Could this 
be the girl he had known yesterday? Where had her tan¬ 
talising, fury-rousing manner gone? And what accounted 
for the soft warm glow which seemed to surround her? 

A sudden encouragement born of hope in his heart im¬ 
pelled him to change his mood to suit hers. 

“You know I don’t want to quarrel with you, Yvonne! 
You are not tactless, it is I who always put my clumsy foot 
in it!” 

He bent impulsively forward as he spoke, intending to 
take her hand in his, and then suddenly drew her into his 
arms. The hope in his heart turned to certainty as she 
nestled closer and hid her head on his shoulder. His pulses 
leapt and a torrent of endearing words burst from his lips 
as he kissed her hair and buried his head in the mass of 
perfumed waves. 

“Yvonne, darling, look at me!” he whispered. “My 
dear, tell me it is true—you do love me?” 

Yvonne did not answer but clutched the lapel of his coat 
as if in silent protest at the suddenness of it all. 

“You’re not afraid of me, Yvonne? I only want to look 
at you, to look deep into your eyes and read there what your 
lips will not tell me.” 

He felt her quiver in response to his appeal; then she 
slowly raised her face and, still keeping her eyes veiled, 
offered her lips for his kiss. 

For a moment he hesitated, unable to believe, unable to 
trust his senses. This girl whose vision had haunted him 
all those years was his at last. Her face was white, her 
eyes closed, her bosom heaved, her soft red lips were slightly 


AT LONGFIELD 


69 


parted. There was no mistaking their invitation, and with 
a wild exultant wave which overpowered him he bent over 
her, crushed those lips beneath his with savage instinct, 
and then, as though he understood at last, his passion died, 
his pressure relaxed. They were too soft and warm to 
crush, they cried for something more than passion; and 
tenderly, lingeringly he kissed again with kisses which won 
their way to her heart. He felt her thrill to his unspoken 
thoughts. The tide of victory drowned his senses. 

“My God, Yvonne, have I won? No one shall take you 
from me now.” And as she moved protestingly he allowed 
her to slip from his embrace. After those kisses he felt 
there could be no more misunderstandings, and in the exul¬ 
tation of the moment he rejoiced that without a word from 
her they had plighted their troth. 

She stood up like one dazed, struggling with her feelings; 
to her it was the real thing, it had come at last. Oh, but 
the horror of it, it had come soiled and unclean from one 
who had made a study of women’s weaknesses. What a 
poor, purblind little fool she had been to think she could 
match her forces against a professor of love! Where had 
her resolution gone? Oh, how could she tell Aunt Eloise 
. . . for she could not stay at Swanston House after this 
. . . tell Aunt Eloise, whose constant hints were warning 
her? The thought was impossible. “My dear Yvonne,” 
she would say, “how could you lower yourself like that?” 
No, Aunt Eloise would not talk so crudely, she would be 
sweet and gentle as she always was, but direct, oh, so direct. 
. . . “My child, my dear Yvonne, it would be mistaken 
kindness on my part to pretend I am anything but disap¬ 
pointed, bitterly disappointed” . . . She looked up, intend¬ 
ing to tell this man she was no match for his mercurial 
personality and the subtlety of his designs, and had she told 
him in her then subdued mood they would have understood 
each other, but unfortunately he betrayed only too plainly 
his feeling of triumph, and that look was enough. She 
misread it for the look he had given her when they first 
kissed, misread it for the gloating of the strong over the 
weak, and in that instant her weakness vanished. 

In an effort to collect her thoughts she walked away from 


70 ALL THAT MATTERS 

him and then, finding he followed her, turned and faced 
him. 

Still with that look of triumph on his face he stretched 
out his hand to take hers and an understanding smile sof¬ 
tened his expression as she withdrew, a smile which slowly 
vanished as he saw the pain in her eyes. 

“What have I done, Yvonne? Have I frightened you?” 

She did not answer him, but continued to regard him 
with those baffling eyes. 

“Yvonne, answer me! I haven’t offended you? I only 
loved you, dear, with a love I have never felt before.” 

Then she answered and Cleeve Barrington stood as 
though turned to stone. 

“I don’t want your love ... if it is love!” 

His face turned deadly white, he shook as if someone 
had dealt him a blow, then slowly he said in a dull voice: 
“You told me you loved me, Yvonne.” 

“I did not! It was you in your conceit who imagined 
that! Ho you think I could love an overgrown stable 
boy? . . . For that is all you are! Your head has been 
turned by the worship of country girls with whom you come 
in contact. I allowed you to kiss me just for the satisfac¬ 
tion of hearing a love confession from you, a confession 
which apparently flows so often and so glibly from your 
lips! I used all my attractions to deceive as you deceive, 
and to humiliate as you humiliate. Now please go; go to 
your country maidens and tell them that Mrs. du Barry 
treats as an insult what they would consider a favour. And 
tell them also that even if I were free ’ ’—and here she raised 
her hands and tauntingly twisted her wedding ring before 
his eyes—“and you were the last man on earth I’d go to 
the other end of the world rather than let your shadow cross 
my path! ’ ’ 

“You . . . are . . . married? Then Colonel St. Ledger 
was right when he said ...” 

“Colonel St. Ledger is always right.” 

Cleeve made a threatening movement towards her but 
checked it with an effort. “Then why did you return my 
kisses?” he demanded in a voice from which all expression 
had vanished, leaving it hard and cold. 

Her resentment rose at his commanding tone and, drop- 


AT LONGFIELD 


71 


ping a mock curtsey, she replied: “For my own personal 
advantage, 0 Lord of the Stables!” 

His reaction was almost as instantaneous and complete 
as hers. What right had a married woman to act like this? 
There was a withering, cynical intonation in his voice when 
he next spoke. 

“For your own personal advantage, Mrs. du Barry?” 
His nostrils dilated and his lips curled. “And do you 
know what we call married women who use their attrac¬ 
tions for their own personal advantage?” 

For a second she hesitated, but meeting the challenge in 
his eyes, said defiantly: “No, I really don’t know what 
you call them, Mr. Barrington . . . not in the stables!” 

“In the stables? ... Well ... we call them harlots, 
Mrs. du Barry, nothing more and nothing less!” 

She gave a little cry and he stood watching the flush of 
shame creep over her face until she covered it with her 
hands in an endeavour to blot out from her vision the ter¬ 
rible look of contempt in his eyes, a look which also ex¬ 
pressed in no small degree pity for a woman who could 
stoop so low. 


CHAPTER XII 


An extract from Yvonne’s journal 

Swanston House. 

A WOMAN should always be mistress of herself, but it’s 
very difficult, my dear journal. How anyone could 
help loving a man like Cleeve—yes! I’m going to call him 
Cleeve here—I don’t know, but you see there are two parts 
of me, the part that hates Mr. Barrington and the part that 
loves Cleeve. I know what it is in me that loves him, it is 
the beauty-loving part. He is such a nice shape; even the 
back of his head looks different from other men’s, and 
when he smiles it is such a crinkly, friendly smile that you 
could never believe his hobby is proposing to girls, or that 
there’s a skeleton somewhere waiting to rear its head! 
But it is the hating part of me which makes me write like 
this, and I want the other part to write! The part that 
wants to be held in his arms. 

A few pages back, dear journal, I told you I’d make him 
want to kiss me again, and I said he never should; and 
you believed me, didn’t you? . . . The head was willing 
but the heart was weak; it was just heaven to lie in his 
arms! He didn’t hurt me like he did the other time—that 
is, my feelings—and if I didn’t know his real character I 
should have thought he really loved me. I wonder if he 
felt me stroke his hair ? . . . I don’t think so; I did it ever 
so gently, yet I did want to ruffle it so. I suppose there 
must be something not quite respectable about me; I do like 
being kissed and I’m not ashamed to tell you. I don’t 
think any woman would want another man’s kisses after 
his, unless she knew the truth—that he hands them round 
like buns at a tea fight! I suppose that silly little Muriel— 
no! I musn’t scratch, you don’t approve. I suppose 

72 


AT LONGFIELD 


73 


Muriel gets kissed the same way, and I suspect she lies in 
his arms with her eyes shut and dreams of heaven. She 
wouldn’t keep a little slit open and peep at his face as I did 
and catch a glimpse of its reality. I don’t know how men 
can act such lies. When he held me in his arms he looked 
as though he really loved me, only I remembered and knew 
it was a trick of his; a prompting of the devil which Aunt 
Eloise says all men have somewhere in their hearts. And 
yet if I hadn’t been told about him and if it hadn’t been for 
that other kiss he gave me I would never have suspected 
he was only pretending to want my love. And to think 
that for one little minute I trusted him and almost,—no, 
quite believed in him! That was when I forgot that men 
are much better actors than women if they want to get 
their own way ... It wasn’t Aunt Eloise who gave me 
that priceless tip, but Reggie Cuthbertson after he saw me 
dancing with Mr. Barrington. The other part of me, the 
part that wants to scratch, would love Cleeve too, if his 
character fitted his face; but it doesn’t. He looks strong, 
determined and reckless; he certainly isn’t strong, he 
couldn’t propose so freely if he were, but I think he must 
be reckless, there’s no doubting that after what the Hon. 
Alfred Maynard told me last night . . . Cleeve made his 
horse take the “Devil’s Leap” last winter because the 
Hon. Alfred dared him to do it. The Master saw him 
heading for it and shouted: “You can’t jump that, 
Barrington, don’t be a damned fool!” But Cleeve turned 
in his saddle and laughed as he shouted back: “I can with 
a fall!” and the whole hunt was petrified to see him head 
straight at the jump, his horse spurred on, striving to do 
the impossible under his reckless impetuous enthusiasm; 
to see the horse gather its feet under it and leap high into 
the air, and the next moment to hear the sickening thud 
as horse and rider fell heavily the other side. Then fol¬ 
lowed the cheers which broke out when Cleeve picked him¬ 
self up and remounted as if it had been an everyday occur¬ 
rence. . . . That shows you the kind of man he is! Why, 
a woman would go to the devil—I like using that word, 
dear journal, when I tell you things!—for a man like that. 
I would myself, only ... I know there’d be a bevy of us 
following him in the same direction! . . . But, after all, 


74 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


I think I’d rather be in such a man’s harem than the one 
and only wife of any other man than Cleeve. . . . But I 
hate him! . . . Not because he called me that horrid name 
—I like him for doing that—I can’t say why ... I sup¬ 
pose it’s because he spoke his real feelings then and I 
wasn’t honest enough to speak mine. . . . Only I won’t 
tempt him to ask for another kiss. There’s no sport in it 
when his mouth twitches and his eyes seem to search the 
back of your head with reproach. It makes me want to 
take his hand, makes me want to take him where there are 
no other women, for women aren’t to be trusted either, 
that is most of them aren’t. I only hope the woman who 
set him on the wrong path will get her deserts . . . nothing 
less than six hundred and seventy-eight degrees fahrenheit, 
I hope! 

I’m not so sure of myself now somehow; I’m just a little 
bit afraid that if he made love to me again I might do 
something foolish. I really wanted those kisses . . . that’s 
why I put my face close to his . . . and the next time I 
might want them more and he might know, and then . . . 
Well . . . there might be another skeleton waiting to raise 
its head. I wonder what he would say if he read this? 

. . . It’s not really me. I’ve never felt like this before; 
I don’t think I’ll ever respect myself again. 

****** 

I’m waiting for a telegram in reply to mine. My prison! 

. . . I’m going back to it; it will upset Aunt Eloise, but 
she won’t know that I wired for the telegram to be sent. 
I must stop now, journal, I can hear someone coming along 
the corridor. ... It’s the telegram, I know. . . . And now 
I’m happy, yes, I am happy. . . . No, I’m not\ I want to 
cry, and that’s the truth! 


CHAPTER XIII 


TILTON, have you seen Mrs. Barrington?” 

“No, sir, she’s upstairs resting and doesn’t want 
to be disturbed.” 

“Oh, just tired, I suppose?” 

There was no reply. 

“Now, Elton, what’s this?” 

“Well, sir, I’m not really supposed to know, and er . . . 
er . . .” 


“Er . . . er?” queried Cleeve Barrington. “What’s the 
matter ? ’ ’ 

“I promised not to say, sir.” 

Cleeve Barrington could hardly believe his ears, and as 
for Elton, he stood facing him mutely with troubled eyes. 

“Good God! Elton, has anything happened?” 

Elton remained mute, and Cleeve Barrington, noticing 
with feelings of apprehension that the old man was 
struggling to restrain his emotion, put his hand on his 
shoulder. 

“You’re all right, Elton, aren’t you?” 

“Mr. Cleeve, I can’t do my duty no longer.” 

“Elton, there’s no need for you to say such a thing in any 
case, we’re all too fond of you. And as for duty, no one 
could do it better. I’m not going to listen if you’re going 
to talk like that! You do a better day’s work than I do 
or ever will.” 

The old man’s eyes expressed gratitude, but the trouble 
in them remained. 

“Mr. Cleeve, sir, I know. I know what you are, not 
only to me, but to all of us. You think us just perfect 
when we’re not, but duty’s duty, and you don’t quite 
understand, sir.” 

A look of perplexity furrowed Cleeve Barrington’s brow. 

75 


76 ALL THAT MATTERS 

“Elton, yon beat me this time. What are you driving 
at?” 

“Well, Mr. Cleeve, I’ve been told not to tell you things, 
but I can’t keep secrets any longer. And you’ll be doing 
me a great favour if you’ll tell Colonel Barrington that 
loyalty to milady is disloyalty to one she likes better than 
herself, and it can’t be done no longer, Mr. Cleeve.” 

It was not so much Elton’s words as the emotion he was 
so obviously struggling to suppress which brought to Cleeve 
Barrington’s mind the conversation he had had with his 
mother and father the other day. Turning on his heel 
he passed through the hall, down the terrace steps and 
across the well-kept lawns; the majestic cedar trees cast¬ 
ing their long shadows unheeded in his path. The gorgeous 
effect of the afternoon sun, as it lit up the leaves of 
the copper beeches, was unnoticed as with head bent Cleeve 
strove to swallow that ever present lump in his throat and 
steadfastly walked on. Walked on past the line of beeches 
which marked the boundary of the spacious lawns of 
Longton Hall and then vaulting over the iron fence he 
found himself in the paddock. 

So that was it, was it? His mother and father were 
keeping something from him, sheltering him as they always 
had done. If Elton’s words meant anything they meant 
that his mother was very much more seriously ill than he 
had imagined. Else why should Elton have talked to him 
like that? He was always being told that Mrs. Barrington 
was tired and did not want to be disturbed. What was 
the matter? Was it something more than old age? One 
thing was obvious, they were all striving to spare him, his 
mother, his father. Even the servants had been told not 
to say anything. Now he must know the truth, know the 
worst, he told himself, and if it would make his mother hap¬ 
py to see him married, why he would marry Muriel, or Alice, 
or anyone else she wished. “Oh, God,” he murmured, “do 
they all think mother’s happiness is nothing to me that 
the truth should be hidden?” Well, he must have the 
truth, but who would give it to him? . . .Elton? He 
didn’t know; at any rate, not the whole truth. . . . His 
father? He would neither deny nor affirm. . . . His 
mother? No! She would be the last person in the 


AT LONGFIELD 


77 


world. There was only one person who could tell all. . . . 
The doctor, if he could be persuaded, but that would be 
difficult. Mornington, he reflected, could be a regular 
sphinx when he liked. Well, he would have a try, and 
then, making up his mind to lose no time, he turned 
to the left in the direction of the stables. A few minutes 
later Griffiths was driving the 30 h.p. Minerva, all out, 
tearing along under Cleeve’s exhortations, at a terrific 
pace in the direction of the doctor’s residence. 

****** 

Cleeve Barrington was not kept waiting for more than 
a few seconds, for hardly had he been shown into the 
consulting room when Dr. Mornington hurriedly entered, 
wearing a puzzled, anxious expression. 

“What’s the matter, Cleeve? Nothing wrong at the 
Hall, is there?” 

“That’s what I want to know; that’s why I’ve come 
here, Doctor, to find out. Were you there this after¬ 
noon?” 

“What makes you ask that question?” 

“Look here, Doctor, it’s no use fencing with me. I 
know it’s unprofessional to talk about your patients, but 
in this case your patient happens to be my mother. I 
know quite well she’s seriously ill and I want to know the 
truth.” 

He looked steadily at Dr. Mornington as he spoke, but 
the latter’s face was sphinx-like in its expression, and 
Cleeve’s heart sank. He was apprehensive that he would 
get nothing from the doctor. 

“Look here, Doctor, I’ve got to know. Do you think 
this is a case for standing on professional etiquette?” 

Still Dr. Mornington did not reply. He had promised 
both Colonel and Mrs. Barrington that he would tell 
nothing, and so the sphinx-like expression remained. He 
had never doubted Colonel Barrington’s wisdom in keeping 
the knowledge from Cleeve, he argued that there must be 
some good motive for doing so, and in any case it was one 
thing to pass a few casual remarks in connection with Mrs. 
Barrington’s illness with a friend of the family like Mrs. 
de Haviland, but quite another thing to have an open dis- 


78 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


cussion forced on him by one so vitally interested as Cleeve 
Barrington was in this case. Dr. Mornington was as 
honourable as he was skilled and the wishes of his patients 
he regarded as a sacred trust. So he quietly took a seat, 
intending to tell Cleeve Barrington that in this case his 
tongue was tied, but to tell him in such a way that it would 
give no offence. 

“Cleeve, my boy, I hope you won’t be offended at what 
I’m going to say, but we doctors have no right to discuss 
our patients without their consent. I have attended every 
member of your family for thirty years and I have been 
honoured with their friendship as well as their trust. That 
trust I can’t betray. . . . Mind you, I’m not admitting 
or denying that I paid Longton Hall a professional visit 
this afternoon, but even if I did pay that visit, I think your 
father is the man to approach.” 

“My father?” Cleeve gave a hard, desperate laugh. 
“My father! Have you ever tried to get anything out of 
him?” 

“And because it’s hopeless you come to me? It isn’t 
quite flattering, Cleeve, is it?” observed Dr. Mornington, 
pressing his advantage. A little glint of satisfaction crept 
into the corners of his eyes; he knew what to expect. The 
impulsiveness in Cleeve’s nature would be aroused, and 
impulsive men were easy to deal with. 

“It depends on how you take matters,” responded 
Cleeve with a quietness which was disconcerting. “I 
haven’t come here to demand a confidence, I’ve come to 
plead. When you came into the room I read your anxiety. 
I’m always being told that my mother is tired and doesn’t 
want to be disturbed. She’s tired and doesn’t want to 
be disturbed again to-day, and Elton, who told me this, 
couldn’t restrain his feelings. That look of yours brought 
a lump to my throat. Whether you tell me or not, I have 
gathered something of the truth. My mother is seriously 
ill, and I want to ask you a very direct question, I think 
it’s one you will answer. ... Is my mother worrying on 
my account?” 

Dr. Mornington’s resolution in the presence of Cleeve’s 
emotion, for there was a betraying huskiness in the latter’s 


AT LONGFIELD 79 

voice, was shaken. It was difficult to parry an appeal of 
the heart. He would hear what Cleeve had to say. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Well, Doctor, I’ll come to the point at once. I believe 
my mother is seriously ill. I know her one ambition is 
to see me married. I feel she is hiding her illness from me 
in order that I shall not be influenced by it to do anything 
in haste, and I’m afraid she thinks that if I knew how ill 
she was, I might be tempted to rush into a marriage which 
I would afterwards regret.” 

Cleeve watched Dr. Mornington closely as he spoke and 
a slight movement on the latter’s part told him that his 
suspicions were correct. 

“The fact of the matter is,” he continued, “I haven’t 
married because I’ve been too romantic. I have been 
waiting for the passion we all read about in books, and 
I have come to the conclusion that if I wait for that 
millennium I shall find my coffin first! And it is time I 
married, isn’t it?” 

Dr. Mornington nodded in agreement. “We all think 
that, you know, Cleeve.” 

“Well, if I thought that it would relieve my mother’s 
mind I might hurry up my steps a bit. But I do think 
I should know exactly how ill she is and the nature of the 
illness. What is the meaning of her constantly retiring 
to her room and not wanting to be disturbed? She is 
suffering from attacks of some kind; I’m not exactly devoid 
of common sense! I think when I’ve learnt that much I 
should be told what it is. If you won’t tell me, well, I 
shall find out, and you mustn’t blame me if I go my own 
way about it. I’m not a child and I’m not going to be 
treated like one.” 

“Well, Cleeve, I don’t blame you. But it’s Colonel 
Barrington you should speak to.” 

Cleeve laughed again, impatiently. “My father is not a 
free agent in this matter. He is only doing what mother’s 
persuaded him to do. In a case like this you are the judge 
of what is right and what is wrong, the sole judge, Doctor.” 

Dr. Mornington was visibly wavering. He was turning 
things over in his mind. Like every capable doctor, he 
treated the patient as well as the disease, and now he was 


80 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


busy weighing up the consequences of a refusal to discuss 
his patient. If he continued in his refusal he might do 
more harm than good. Cleeve was not the man to take 
no for an answer where his mother was concerned. To 
equivocate would only make him more suspicious, more 
determined to find out the truth. He was apprehensive 
that Cleeve in his impetuosity might even broach the 
subject to Mrs. Barrington herself and further disturb her 
peace of mind, a peace of mind on which so much depended. 

“Perhaps/* he reflected inwardly, “it would be better 
to let Cleeve know everything and he could then tell his 
mother he knew. ” If this could be done without giving 
Mrs. Barrington a shock it would probably put an end 
to some of her present anxieties. 

“Well, Cleeve, I think the best course I can take is to 
be absolutely candid with you. To tell you the truth, I 
am not at all convinced that Mrs. Barrington’s anxiety to 
spare you is not aggravating her illness. She has been 
suffering for some time from very serious heart attacks. 
Now, my boy, she may live for a long time, but of course, on 
the other hand, there is no minimising the seriousness of 
the attacks. In all these cases it is desirable to shelter the 
patient from as much fatigue and worry as possible and I 
have been very exercised in my mind about Mrs. Barring¬ 
ton’s endeavours to keep the knowledge of her illness 
from you. She has been rather worse the last few days 
and had a very serious attack this afternoon, and I know 
that lately she has been worrying more on your account. 
Perhaps if that anxiety were removed it would be better 
for her. The one thing to avoid is shock; don’t be too 
impetuous, don’t blurt out your knowledge. Let her learn 
it gradually, and I should think the best thing to do is to 
tell the Colonel you have had a chat with me, and let him 
tell your mother.” 

4 ‘ There is no minimising the seriousness of the attacks! ’ ’ 
The words rang in Cleeve Barrington’s brain, that lump in 
his throat swelled again with a force that drove tears to 
his eyes, drove them in spite of every effort he could make 
to control his emotion. His worst suspicions were con¬ 
firmed, that other morning he had formed the opinion that 
his mother had not long to live, but . . . “There is no 


AT LONGFIELD 


81 


minimising the seriousness of the attacks!” . . . She 

might be passing out of his life at that very moment. He 
longed to be alone, and without looking at Dr. Mornington 
he walked towards the door. 

“You won’t be reckless in this, my boy, will you?” 
Dr. Mornington held out his hand. 

Cleeve turned and took it, and the doctor’s tightened grip 
expressed his unspoken sympathy and understanding. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do, Doctor, I haven’t thought 
it out. It’s a bit of a shock, you know, but I’ll . . . I’ll 
remember what you’ve said.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


T EAVING the doctor’s house, Cleeve Barrington told 
Griffiths to drive home, while he himself set out to 
follow the footpath through the fields. The doctor’s words 
had left no doubt in his mind as to the course he should 
follow, only there would be no beating about the bush as far 
as he was concerned, no talking it over first with the Guv’- 
nor. He would just blow into his mother’s room, as he al¬ 
ways did blow in when he had anything serious to talk about, 
and with some light-hearted chaff or banter let her know 
he knew all about the secret she was keeping from him. 

It would not take long to get home and a vigorous walk 
would steady his mind, for that lump in his throat still 
remained, and his mother would be quick enough to see 
that his light-hearted banter covered other emotions, unless 
he walked it off. At first he set his mind to concentrate 
on the reasons which had made her preserve secrecy in a 
matter which concerned him as much perhaps as it con¬ 
cerned anyone else, but he found it difficult. One moment 
the words rang in his brain . . . “There is no minimising 

the seriousness of the attacks,” and no sooner had those 
words wrung his heart than the hope of youth whispered in 
his ear: “Now, my boy, she may live for a long time, the 
one thing is to avoid as much fatigue and worry as possible,” 
but the stress which Dr. Mornington had laid on the words 
“and worry” had not been lost on Cleeve . . . “And 

worry.” What had his mother to worry about? . . . 

“She has been rather worse the last few days . . . and 
has been worrying more on your account.” . . . “That’s 
what old Mornington said,” he mused, “but it’s difficult to 
place one’s self in the position of a mother. If I had a son 
who didn’t want to marry I wouldn’t worry ... at least 
... I’m almost sure I wouldn’t.” 

82 


AT LONGFIELD 


83 


He walked steadily on, concentrating his thoughts on 
that aspect of the case, recalling the many things his 
mother had said on the subject of marriage, and finally 
arrived at the conclusion that his reluctance to marry was 
the cause of greater anxiety to her than he had imagined, 
an anxiety which, in his present highly sensitive condition, 
he now seemed to fully realise. 

The more he turned recent happenings over in his mind 
the more significant they all became and the more significant 
his mother’s altered demeanour appeared. For lately she 
had ceased to talk about his marrying. Even the other 
morning, when his father had broached the subject, his 
mother had said very little. Then, gradually, out of the 
love he bore her, the full appreciation of the sacrifice she 
was making dawned upon him. 

As the hand of death approached, her importunity had 
weakened and now clearly he saw it all. She had given up 
hope of seeing him settled in her lifetime, and that was 
the cause of her mental anxiety. She was holding back 
her persuasions and keeping her secret for fear that if he 
realised it he might be tempted to marry just to ease her 
mind, just to give her the happiness of seeing her dream 
fulfilled. How well she understood him, for that was just 
what he would do. When he reached home he would go at 
once and tell her he knew all about her illness. That 
would remove one cause for worry. And then he would 
go over and ask Muriel Ryder to marry him, there was no 
reason why he shouldn’t, for his ideals had been shattered, 
his idol broken beyond repair. 

As a matter of fact Cleeve really knew nothing of the 
ways of women, and as his thoughts wandered in wrong 
directions he laughed to himself with sardonic humour. 
. . . “The pretty ones are made to kiss . . . that is, the 
pretty ones like Yvonne; they aren’t fit for anything else. 
They get so much admiration that their heads are turned 
and then all they think about is having men at their feet and 
snapping their fingers at their conquests. Later on, when 
they get older, their freshness gone, their beauty on the 
wane, they really lay themselves out to attract and marry 
someone to save their pride. But they are soulless all the 
time, absolutely soulless! Even when they marry they 


84 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


still stoop to conquer, like Yvonne.’’ . . . Damn it! why 
should he be always thinking of Yvonne? He was nothing 
to her and she had made it clear he never could be. . . . 
He had better propose to Muriel and have done with it. It 
was the right thing to do, the only thing in the circum¬ 
stances. 

Like a horse whose breaking in had been deferred too 
long, he had had things so much his own way that Yvonne’s 
treatment of him had brought out the recklessness of his 
nature, and under the urge of that recklessness he deter¬ 
mined to propose to Muriel, and if she accepted him, as he 
thought she would, to settle down to his life’s ambition, 
ease his mother’s burden and forget all his idle dreams. 

“At any rate,” he said to himself, “he would be sufficient 
for Muriel, and he would rather have the love of a girl like 
that than the love of a soulless wanton!” 

Suddenly the sound of voices disturbed his reverie. He 
was within a few paces of the stile which separated him 
from the path through the heath plantations. A few words 
spoken in supplication caught his ear and the voice seemed 
familiar. Hurrying forward, he leapt the stile, and leaving 
the pathway, strode in the direction of the sounds. A short, 
imploring sentence arrested him and he hesitated for a 
moment. 

“Oh, you can’t leave me to face it all alone!” . . . 

Then a man’s voice replying angrily, “It was your own 
fault, wasn’t it?” . . . and the heart-broken response, “Oh, 
how can you speak like that? ... You can’t love me to 
speak like that!” 

Cleeve Barrington stood petrified. He clearly recognised 
the girl’s voice now. It was Maud Bilton’s, the daughter 
of his father’s gamekeeper, a girl not yet out of her teens. 
The pretty innocent child he had always called “Bob” 
ever since she was seven, when he used to tease her and, 
among other things, would persist in telling her she was a 
boy, pretending that her parents were only dressing her 
up as a girl because she would come in useful to do house¬ 
work later on; and when she would protest that she was a 
girl he would still reiterate his belief and tell her that if 
she knew how scarce domestic servants were she would 
understand why they put her into petticoats. All this, 
and more, flashed through his mind as he stood undecided 


AT LONGFIELD 


85 


what to do. He turned as if to retrace his steps, he had no 
wish to intrude, but his foot caught in the bough of a fallen 
tree and the crackling of the dead undergrowth as he re¬ 
covered his balance sounded loud and startling in the silence 
of the wood. For an instant the voices ceased and then a 
cry rang out. 

“Oh, please don’t go! Don’t leave me before we’ve 
settled this” . . . and the man’s angry voice: “Will you 
let go!” . . . followed by the sound of a blow. 

Cleeve Barrington’s mind was made up and, striding 
forward in the direction of the voices, his footsteps re¬ 
verberated through the wood as he crashed through the 
undergrowth. The sound of another blow reached his ears 
before hurrying footsteps warned him that the man was 
retreating. As Cleeve came in sight of the girl he saw the 
man rushing headlong through the plantation. He caught 
only a fleeting glimpse of him, but it was sufficient for 
recognition, and then he looked down at Bob. She lay full 
length on the ground, her face buried in her hands, sobbing 
convulsively. He bent down and touched her shoulder. 

“What’s the matter, Bob?” 

With a startled exclamation she jumped up and faced 
him. In her anxiety of mind she had not heard his ap¬ 
proach, and Cleeve was struck by the pathetic figure she 
presented, with the tears rolling down her cheeks and two 
vivid red marks on the sides of her face. 

“That brute struck you then?” said Cleeve, with anger 
flaming in his eyes. “My God, he must have struck you 
with his clenched fist!” 

“No, no, he didn’t, Mr. Barrington,” she declared in 
desperate defence. “That . . . that is ... he didn’t 
mean to,” she concluded lamely. 

“Bob, you mustn’t try to deceive me,” said Cleeve 
sternly. “I heard something of what passed between you; 
what is the matter?” 

“Nothing, Mr. Barrington, really . . . only ...” Her 
eyes flickered before his steady gaze and she dropped hers 
to the ground. “We’ve only had a little tiff.” 

“Who is he, Bob? Won’t you tell me?” said Cleeve 
pleadingly, hoping that if he could so worm his way into 
her confidence as to get her to confess the man’s name it 


86 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


might pave the way for a frank discussion of her trouble. 

“My lover, Mr. Barrington.” She uttered the word 
with a finality indicative of an intention to say little more. 

“Lover you call him? And does a lover in his love 
quarrel strike a child with his clenched fist? . . . For 
you’re only a child, Bob.” 

“You mustn’t speak like that, Mr. Barrington! You 
don’t understand. I love him very, very much,” she said 
proudly. 

“Who is he?” 

“I shan’t say.” The words were spoken inoffensively, 
with a sigh of relief at the knowledge that her lover had 
not been recognised. 

“I wonder if it’s Michael Tennant? . . . And I also won¬ 
der, Bob, whether your father knows about this?” 

All her confidence crumpled up, her face grew white, 
while the look of a hunted animal crept into her eyes. 

“How do you know?” she exclaimed involuntarily. 

“I caught sight of him as he ran away. You know, Bob, 
I don’t pay much attention to gossip, but I’ve heard one or 
two ugly rumours about Michael Tennant and the less you 
have to do with him the better, I should say. I don’t think 
he’s a gentleman and I don’t trust him, anyway. If it 
hadn’t been for Major Forsyth taking him up no one would 
ever have taken any notice of him; every man about here 
dislikes him more or less, and I’m afraid that if you listen 
to him you may be ruined body and soul.” 

And then all at once he regretted he had uttered the 
words. There was something in the shiver of apprehension 
she gave that told him the thing he was warning her against 
was already done. With comprehending eyes he saw the 
dark rings under hers and his fists clenched tightly. 

“Tennant shall pay for this,” he said in an ominously 
quiet voice. “If he doesn’t marry you I’ll thrash him till 
he can’t stand.” 

“You’ll do no such thing, Mr. Barrington,” she cried, 
stamping her foot. “He loves me and ...” Here she 
faced him with reborn pride in her eyes . . . “and I love 
him! ’ ’ 

“Bob, you know you’re only trying to deceive yourself. 
You know he loves you no more than he loved other girls 


AT LONGFIELD 


87 


he has ruined. He came here from Switzerland because 
he was hounded out, and by God, Ill hound him out of 
this! ’’ 

“Please, Mr. Barrington, oh, please don’t! Ill go mad 
if you do! Leave me! Leave me!” she cried, as she 
sank to the ground again and began to sob pitifully. 

Cleeve looked down at her uncertainly; she looked such 
a frail broken figure that he hesitated to leave her in that 
lonely wood. 

“Please go, Mr. Barrington, you can’t do anything for 
me now. ... I don’t want you to do anything, only leave 
me alone.” She spoke the words wildly, spasmodically, 
her body convulsed with hysterical sobs. 

Cleeve saw she was almost beside herself with grief, and 
although unversed in the ways of women, some instinct 
told him she would be better left alone. So quietly, with¬ 
out a word, he walked slowly away, listening intently for 
any untoward sounds, and shortly, when nothing broke 
the stillness, he quickened his steps and continued his way 
home. 

*##### 

Arriving at Longton Hall, Cleeve Barrington rushed up 
the great central staircase leading from the hall, and giving 
a few gentle taps on his mother’s door, entered in his usual 
light-hearted manner. 

“Hello, mother, had one of your little attacks again, 
eh?” 

“Cleeve!” Mrs. Barrington’s voice was full of pained 
astonishment. Cleeve bent down and, putting his arm 
round her neck, gave her a warm kiss. 

“Oh, you needn’t say ‘Cleeve,’ mother! You thought 
you were hiding these attacks from me, didn’t you? What 
would you say to Cleeve now if he were ill and didn’t tell 
you?” 

“Cleeve!” 

“No, it’s no use saying ‘Cleeve.’ You don’t get round 
me like that. . . . You’d be very cross with me. But 

I’m not cross with you, I don’t make mountains out of 
molehills, like somebody I know!” 

Mrs. Barrington gave a little laugh, and Cleeve Barring¬ 
ton knew he had lifted part of the load from her mind. 


CHAPTER XV 



The words were uttered softly with that deference which 
members of the younger generation assume when they 
disturb the afternoon nap of elders whom they love and 
respect. 

Mrs. de Haviland awoke from her reverie. Sitting in an 
easy chair before the fire, for the afternoon was chilly, she 
had allowed her thoughts to dream. Helen Courtney had 
returned home, summoned by an urgent telegram from 
her doctor to the effect that Mr. Courtney was suffering 
from an attack of “flu,” and her friend’s departure, for 
perhaps the first time in Mrs. de Haviland’s life, had left 
her with a sense of relief rather than regret. 

Unconsciously Mrs. Courtney had exercised a depressing 
effect on Eloise de Haviland. In a rash moment she had 
promised to help her friend in her matrimonial designs, 
and although in the letter she had not gone back on that 
promise, in spirit she had. Deep down in her heart she 
did not approve of Mrs. de Haviland’s scheme. 

According to her creed, married women had no right to 
try and supplant the unmarried, and Eloise de Haviland’s 
attitude of mind with regard to Yvonne and Cleeve was to 
her an enigma. That her friend could do anything funda¬ 
mentally wrong she would not admit; that in justice and 
equity Yvonne’s bonds should be broken she did not doubt, 
she accepted Mrs. de Haviland’s word for that; the gulf 
she could not bridge was the gulf between active and passive 
assistance. If Yvonne of her own free choice was prepared 
to sacrifice everything for Cleeve Barrington, she argued, 
and he equally was prepared to sacrifice everything for her, 
then she could lend countenance to the inevitable. But 
to lend countenance to an artificial inevitable was, not- 

88 


AT LONGFIELD 


89 


withstanding her promise to Eloise de Haviland, repugnant 
to her finer senses, and so unconsciously, while she had 
given lip-service to the plot—for Mrs. Courtney considered 
it nothing but a plot—she had been incapable of giving 
heart-service, and Mrs. de Haviland was well aware that 
her friend’s want of enthusiasm was weakening her own 
resolve. 

Now that her friend had taken her departure Mrs. de 
Haviland’s strength of purpose returned and aided by 
that return of mental strength, her weakness of the morning 
appeared not only unjustified, but ridiculous. It was not 
so much the construction which Mrs. Courtney had put on 
the events of the previous evening that had carried con¬ 
viction at the time, as the undercurrent of disapproval, 
almost amounting to implied censure, which Mrs. de 
Haviland had subconsciously read into her friend’s words. 

In the quiet of her own drawing room, with her friend 
gone and under the influence of a cheerful fire, Mrs. de 
Haviland could not understand her unwarranted depression 
of the morning. The happenings which had exercised her 
mind were symptoms which lent themselves to a totally 
different diagnosis from that which Helen Courtney had 
arrived at. . . . Cleeve had not danced with Yvonne 

because of some misunderstanding between them. It was 
only a natural and ordinary struggle for mastership between 
lovers. Cleeve was no child, but a man who, for all his 
impetuosity, could steel himself to wait for fruit to ripen. 

Why had she forgotten that trait? she mused. Cleeve’s 
quarrel with Colonel St. Ledger on Muriel Ryder’s account 
had really no significance as far as his leanings towards that 
girl were concerned, for everyone knew that Cleeve Barring¬ 
ton was always prepared to defend the under-dog, and 
when the under-dog was a woman, and the blows un¬ 
deserved insults, it took very little to turn his defence into 
attack. Then there was that episode of the nightdress. 
He was under the impression that he had slept in Yvonne’s 
room, what was more natural than he should think it was 
hers? All men, no matter how strong-minded, attached 
a romantic sentimental value to anything their idols had 
worn. How could she have come to the absurd conclusion 
that he had taken it away to have it repaired ? His present 


90 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


attitude to Yvonne was easily explained. . . . She had 
interrupted him in the act of proposing to Muriel Ryder, 
time and propinquity had gradually but surely clouded a 
vision which had once enthralled him. His mental picture 
had lost its vividness, the face which had been photo¬ 
graphed on his brain five years ago had faded. His 
mother’s illness had momentarily turned the picture face 
to the wall, and, like a man whose dream was past recall, 
he had yielded to the prompting of his manhood. Then as 
if by magic the picture with all its vividness had suddenly 
returned, the allurement of real flesh and blood had re¬ 
intensified its outlines. Yvonne had suddenly emerged 
from the faded background of that almost forgotten past 
like an avenging angel. 

Caught in his weakness, he had vented his feelings of 
revulsion, as man always does, on the only woman who 
really mattered. Mrs. de Haviland felt she could see it 
all. Her almost forgotten past resurrected itself and sensi¬ 
tised her perspicacity. Her dream had been recreated and 
it was in the buoyancy of hope that she gave Yvonne a 
welcome smile. 

She felt a thrill of pride at the picture which her niece 
presented. The rebellious look had disappeared. Those 
deep violet eyes had taken on a browner, softer tint, and 
the dark rings under them accentuated their pleading, 
supplicating expression. The transparency of her skin 
gave the whole face a frail appearance, the chin seemed to 
have lost some of its roundness, but two patches of colour 
in her cheeks and her vivid rosy lips proclaimed the purity 
of the warm healthy blood which coursed through her veins. 

“Why, Yvonne, you’re all eyes to-day, and your face 
seems ever so much smaller. Come in, my dear, you look 
cold. . . . Why haven’t you put a wrap on? It’s chilly 

to-day and that slim white neck of yours looks as though 
it wants protecting.” 

“Oh, Aunt Eloise, don’t!” The telegram fluttered to 
the floor, and throwing her arms round Mrs. de Haviland’s 
neck Yvonne fought her tears. 

“Why, child, what’s the matter?” Mrs. de Haviland’s 
hand found its way to the chestnut hair and her fingers 
fondled a rebellious little curl which looked as though it 


AT LONGFIELD 


91 


wanted to undo itself and let the world see that the ear it 
partially hid should never have been hidden at all. Her 
other hand sought Yvonne’s waist and as she drew her 
niece closer the waist yielded with the supineness of youth, 
throwing into greater relief the graceful contour of her hips. 

“I’ve got to go, Aunt Eloise.” 

“You’ve got to go? Yvonne! what do you mean?” 
And then Mrs. de Haviland’s eyes fell on the telegram lying 
on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. The words 
“RETURN IMMEDIATELY” fired themselves into her 
brain. 

“Yvonne, when did this come?” 

There was a pause, for Yvonne could not trust herself 
to answer, while Mrs. de Haviland’s reborn hope turned 
to despair. 

“This is a bitter disappointment, Yvonne. Oh, my child, 
am I never to get to know you? Is your auntie never 
to know anything of your love?” 

Yvonne nestled her head deeper into Mrs. de Haviland’s 
shoulder, and throwing her arm lovingly round her aunt’s 
neck, she burst out with the words: “Auntie, auntie, 
I don’t want to go!” 

“Then you shan’t! I’ll write to Gerald and tell him 
it’s impossible. I won’t have you taken away like this.” 

“But I must go, Aunt Eloise, I must! You don’t know.” 

“I know a great deal more than you think, my child. I 
know how to talk to Gerald, and after you’ve stayed with 
me a little while I think you’ll play your own cards better.” 

“What do you mean, auntie dear?” 

“What I say; I won’t have you treated as though you 
can’t be trusted.” 

Yvonne laughed hysterically. 

“But really I can’t understand this telegram,” continued 
Mrs. de Haviland perplexedly. 

“I’m to go back,” said Yvonne hastily. 

“I know that. But why has the telegram been sent to 
you instead of me? And it’s so peremptory, not a word 
of apology, no consideration for my feelings. . . .You 

were to stay a fortnight, you know.” 

A guilty flush swept Yvonne’s cheeks, and something 


92 ALL THAT MATTERS 

prompted her to try to temper the blow her aunt had 
received. 

4 ‘Don’t be upset, Aunt Eloise, it’s for my good I’m 
going. ... I’m sure it is,” she added as though anxious 
to assure herself. 

Mrs. de Haviland took Yvonne’s hand in hers and caressed 
it clingingly. “You don’t know what a blow this is to 
me, dear. Oh, why has he done it, Yvonne, why has he?” 

There was a moment’s silence, and Mrs. de Haviland 
looked so dejected that Yvonne doubted the wisdom of the 
step she had taken in prompting the despatch of that 
telegram. She had done it in the heat of her temper, and 

now she was filled with remorse. With anyone but her 

aunt, Yvonne might have been tempted to let matters 
remain as they were. She felt that even her aunt was not 
entitled to share the deep secret she cherished in her heart. 
Her love for Cleeve was too deep, too sacred for its knowl¬ 
edge to be shared with anyone, not even with him, his own 
acts had rendered that impossible. 

The professional love maker, as she considered him, 

should never know that the strong swift strokes of the 

practised hand at the game had moved her more than any 
amateur, who worshipped woman as a heavenly being 
of another world, could have done. On the other hand, it 
was against her nature to deceive, and particularly re¬ 
pugnant to her to deceive her aunt, and so, while she was 
in this hesitating frame of mind, a remark of Mrs. de 
Haviland’s suddenly decided her to confess so much as 
would make the part she had played clear. 

“You mustn’t blame him this time, Aunt Eloise, it was 
I who asked him to send the wire, I couldn’t stay here any 
longer.” 

“My dear child! . . . What are you saying? You 

wanted to go back?” Mrs. de Haviland looked pained 
and astonished as she gasped out the words. 

“I couldn’t help it, I’m so unhappy.” 

“But why? Haven’t we been kind to you, Yvonne? 
Haven’t 1 been kind to you? . . . Why, there’s nothing 

I wouldn’t do for you, Yvonne, nothing in this world!” 

“I know, Aunt Eloise, but is isn’t that I’m unhappy, 


AT LONGFIELD 


93 


not really. Only . . . only . . Yvonne felt she 

could not finish the sentence. 

“Then stay! Send another telegram to say your first 
one was a mistake/’ 

“I couldn’t do that,” Yvonne said decidedly. “It’s done 
now. Besides another wire wouldn’t be understood, and 
I’d have to go back to explain, you know I would.” 

“I suppose you would,” Mrs. de Haviland acquiesced 
quietly, realising even before Yvonne spoke that what she 
suggested was impossible. Then she put out her hands and 
drew Yvonne’s face with its anxious, worried look towards 
her and kissed it forgivingly. 

Something in that kiss brought the tears to Yvonne’s 
eyes and she repented more than ever her hasty action. 

“But you can tell me what made you do it, Yvonne?” 
Mrs. de Haviland added appealingly. 

“It was Mr. Barrington.” The words were out before 
she could check them, and as she realised their significance 
a deep red blush rose to her cheeks. 

“Mr. Barrington,” repeated Mrs. de Haviland mechani¬ 
cally. Had her plans really miscarried? The tone of 
Yvonne’s voice was indicative of deep emotion; was the 
drive behind it love or hate? “Mr. Barrington, Yvonne? 
What has he done?” 

Yvonne did not at once reply. She couldn’t quite 
understand her feelings; now that the time had come for 
her to leave she didn’t want to go. And then the remem¬ 
brance of Cleeve Barrington’s influence over her almost 
threw her into a panic, and the knowledge returned that 
if she stayed she could not deny him for long. 

“I have to go, Aunt Eloise,” she replied agitatedly. 
“I can’t trust myself. I don’t know what it is about Mr. 
Barrington, but he fascinates me.” 

Her face crimsoned again as she realised her secret was 
out at last. Discretion left her as the knowledge came that, 
in some subtle incomprehensible way, her aunt was to be 
the keeper of her conscience. 

“Fascinates you, Yvonne? Are you sure it’s only 
fascination?” 

Yvonne felt the words tearing away her mask; between 
her and her aunt there seemed to rear itself the phantom of 


94 ALL THAT MATTERS 

her soul. Her aunt could see it as she saw it, naked and 
exposed. 

“Fascination!” She rose and faced her aunt, an un¬ 
natural laugh escaped her. “No, Aunt Eloise, I don’t 
know why I used the word. ... To retain a shred of 
self-respect, I suppose. . . . No, it’s not fascination, 

Auntie. . . 

“Then what is it, Yvonne? You can tell me.” 

“Can I?” 

“Yes!” 

Yvonne looked long into Mrs. de Haviland’s eyes and 
then, as though no word was too strong to express her 
self-contempt, one word came falteringly from her lips. 

“Yvonne, you mustn’t use such a word! You poor 
demented child, you don’t know what you’re saying!” 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, I do! He kissed me, he kissed Muriel Ryder! 
He put his arm round my; waist, he put his arm round 
Muriel’s. . . . And I liked it, liked it even while I saw 
that vision of Muriel in his arms and read the look of passion 
in his eyes. For there was passion in mine, I know it! 
And he knows it, he must know it! It’s for your sake and 
father’s I’m going, I’m not thinking of anyone else. Oh, 
yes, Aunt Eloise, I know it! I can’t help it, I don’t want 
to help it. No one can expect anything else when I don’t 
know who my mother is!” 

“Yvonne! Yvonne!! You must not talk like this.” 
There was an anxious, frightened look in Mrs. de Haviland’s 
eyes which Yvonne misread. 

“Aunt Eloise, don’t stop me! No one can hate me as 
I hate myself.” 

“For letting Cleeve Barrington kiss you? . . . There’s 
no harm in a kiss.” 

“There’s no harm when you don’t want them. But 
. . . but,” Yvonne floundered for a moment and then her 
words came with a rush. “But I want his kisses, I can’t 
help myself. Oh! can’t you see I have to go?” she ended 
pathetically. 

Mrs. de Haviland saw that the storm was spending itself. 
Tears ran unheeded down Yvonne’s cheeks. She was like 
a broken reed, imploring support. Her eyes expressed 


AT LONGFIELD 95 

the misery of her wounded self-respect and Mrs. de Haviland 
sensed the appeal for comfort. 

“Yvonne, we women don’t always understand our emo¬ 
tions. They overwhelm us at times, but it doesn’t follow 
that we’re always wrong to give way to them, my child, 
and when you’ve had time to think over your feelings you 
may think what I think.” 

Yvonne looked up at her aunt, but read in her eyes no 
strained effort to console, they spoke of an understanding 
feeling of sympathy, the words of comfort were spontaneous. 

“What do you think, Auntie, dear?” 

“I think, Yvonne, what you will think later on, and you 
will hate that word you used when you realise that a nobler 
instinct made you want those kisses. No, Yvonne, I don’t 
want to influence you now,” Mrs. de Haviland added quickly 
to check a response from her niece. “I think after what 
you’ve told me I should not be doing right in trying to 
detain you. There’s a good train at ten in the morning. 
I’ll send Gerald a wire saying you will go by that.” 

“I’d better go to-day,” Yvonne objected, and then 
added unwillingly: * ‘ Mr. Barrington is dining here to-night 
and after what has happened I don’t want to meet him again. 
There’s a train at four, I think. I can stay the night in 
town and go on in the morning.” 

“No, Yvonne dear,” said Mrs. de Haviland quietly, 
as she rose from her chair. “You go and lie down and 
I’ll bring you a cup of tea later on. Meanwhile I’ll phone 
Longton Hall and tell Cleeve that we’re all very tired after 
the dance and we’re going to bed early. He won’t mind 
coming another time, I’m sure.” 

When the door closed on Yvonne, Mrs. de Haviland picked 
up the telephone receiver, but it was a trunk and not a 
local call for which she asked and a few minutes later she 
was speaking to Helen Courtney. 

“How’s Richard, Helen?” 

“Well, he’s much better, Eloise, I’m pleased to say. 
He’s worrying about his will though. He wants Cleeve to 
be one of the executors and now he has a slight temperature 
he’s fretting about it.” 

As these words reached Mrs. de Haviland’s ears she drew 
a breath of relief. She had intended telling her friend that 
Yvonne was leaving on Cleeve’s account, and imploring her 


96 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


assistance. Now it would be unnecessary to tell Mrs. 
Courtney anything on the phone; what she had to say 
she could say later on. 

“If he’s worrying about that he can’t be very bad,” 
replied Mrs. de Haviland laughingly. “Why don’t you 
ring up Cleeve and ask him to come and see Richard about 
it? It would cheer him up to have a talk with Cleeve, 
and I don’t think Cleeve has anything particular to do.” 

“I was just going to do that when your call came through. 
I’m going to ask him to come up to-morrow by the ten 
train and stop the night with us.” 

Mrs. de Haviland could scarcely believe her ears. She 
had intended asking Helen Courtney to invite Cleeve 
Barrington to visit Richard on some pretext or other, and 
to suggest that he should travel by the ten train, and here 
was her friend on her own initiative making the suggestion 
herself. Perhaps her scheme was going to be favoured 
by fate after all. 

When Mrs. Courtney rang off Mrs. de Haviland asked to 
be put through to Longton Hall. Elton’s voice answered 
her. 

“Will you ask Mr. Cleeve to speak to me.” 

“He’s not here, madam, but we’re expecting him at 
any moment.” 

“When he comes in, then, tell him that if he could come 
over to tea instead of dinner I should be very pleased. 
We’re tired after the dance, he’ll understand.” 

“Very well, madam.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


]yj RS. DE HAVILAND paused in the act of pouring out a 
1 1 cup of tea for herself. “Have you any news, Cleeve?” 

Cleeve Barrington replaced his cup on the saucer he was 
holding in his left hand. “News? Mrs. de Haviland. 
Yes, quite a lot.” He accompanied his words with a frank, 
crinkly smile. “The fact is I have so much I don’t know 
where to begin.” 

“Anything to do with you?” 

“Yes. To borrow a phrase from the modern novel writer, 
‘I am very much in the picture’!” 

“Well, begin at the beginning or at the most exciting 
part, I don’t care which.” 

“I think the most exciting part has been cut out.” 

“What a pity! Whose fault is that?” 

“Yours, I should say.” 

“Mine?” responded Mrs. de Haviland incredulously. 
Then, noticing the expression of banter on Cleeve’s face, 
she smiled understandingly. “Cleeve, you’re always teas¬ 
ing me! You mean my family dinner party?” 

He gave a little chuckle. “Yes. I wanted to meet 
Yvonne again.” 

Mrs. de Haviland placed her hand on his arm. “I had 
to put you off, Cleeve, you’re too impetuous!” 

“Impetuous!” He gave a laugh. “I wasn’t impetu¬ 
ous, I was mad! I suppose she has told; you how I 
behaved ?’ ’ 

Mrs. de Haviland nodded. 

“Well, I haven’t accepted your invitation to tea with 
the express intention to apologise. But-” 

Mrs. de Haviland held up a restraining hand. “Apolo¬ 
gise, Cleeve? . . . There’s no need for apology, it never 
entered my head when I asked you to come to tea to-” 

“I know what you’re going to say, that you can trust 

97 



98 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


me and all that. So you can, but although I wouldn’t 
admit it to Yvonne, I’m really sorry I called her that 
beastly name.” 

“What beastly name, Cleeve? I’ve heard nothing about 
it.” 

“She hasn’t told you?” 

“No, she only hinted at a misunderstanding of some 
sort. ’ ’ 

“Well, I called her a-” 

“No, Cleeve, I won’t listen. Whatever words passed 
between you keep them to yourselves. You never know 
what the future holds. We all say things in the heat of 
passion we don’t mean, and there’s no passion like the 
anger which misunderstandings between a boy—for you’re 
little more than a boy, Cleeve—and a girl can create. 
Forget what you’ve said, but remember Yvonne’s only a 
child and I think it quite possible you don’t understand 
her and have driven her too far. You don’t know how 
lovable she is.” 

There perhaps would have been some excuse for Cleeve 
if he had blurted out the retort that sprang to his lips,— 
“A child you call her? Does a child use her personal 
attractions to extract an avowal of love and then twiddle 
a wedding ring in derision under your nose?”—for only 
half an hour ago he had proposed to Muriel Ryder, and 
had been accepted, and the very acceptance which he had 
almost prayed for beforehand had struck his heart with a 
cold chill. But to belittle one who had made such an 
appeal to him, as Yvonne had, was repugnant to his sense 
of chivalry, and even had he been tempted to belittle her, 
that word “lovable” would have silenced his tongue. The 
word went ! to his torn heart like a ministering angel. 
“ Lovable ” that was what he’d always thought her. His 
eyes dropped as a soft caressing expression crept into 
them. Had he taken Yvonne the wrong way, was she still 
the lovable girl he had always imagined her to be? Some¬ 
thing cried within him for confirmation. He felt if he 
could still cherish that picture of her in his heart even life 
with Muriel Ryder would have its compensations. His idol 
in spite of all would live and remain his idol, although 
she would ever belong to someone else. 



AT LONGFIELD 


99 


“You don’t know her,” Mrs. de Haviland continued. 
“Very few people do. Her nature is just one vast unfath¬ 
omable sea of affection and loyalty, not only loyalty to 
those she loves but loyalty to herself, loyalty to every 
womanly instinct worthy of the name. You’ll say she’s 
my niece, I know, but I’m not one to be unduly influenced 
by that. I’m not blind to anyone’s faults. That slim 
figure of hers holds a nature which doesn’t belie her face. 
She’s as true as steel, as high spirited as a thoroughbred. 
But creep into her heart and all her spirit and defiance is 
replaced by a love which overwhelms you. She becomes a 
child, trusting you as she trusts herself, giving you a love 
as pure and unselfish as she expects from you. She’s slow 
to give, Cleeve, but once she gives she gives all, not for 
to-day or to-morrow but for always. I would like to tell 
you that her father has made sacrifices which few men 
would make, but should occasion arise, unless I sadly 
misjudge Yvonne, she is capable of making even greater 
sacrifices.” 

Whether it was. Mrs. de Haviland’s words, Cleeve’s 
thoughts, or the disturbing effects of the conversation he 
had had with Dr. Mornington, matters little, but the caress¬ 
ing expression which had crept into his eyes deepened 
as Mrs. de Haviland spoke. He saw the pattern of the 
carpet, blurred as if enveloped in a mist. Then, as Mrs. 
de Haviland’s conversation ended, he turned his head 
towards the window and for a few moments gazed abstract¬ 
edly across the lawn. It was a perfectly still afternoon, 
but a leaf somehow managed to detach itself from a branch 
and fluttered slowly, idly, to the ground. 

“Have you any other news?” asked Mrs. de Haviland, 
after a few moments’ silence, as though to efface her prev¬ 
ious remarks. 

With an effort Cleeve broke off his thoughts. It was 
done with, that dream of the past, it had fallen as the leaf 
had fallen. The new dream might be a nightmare, but 
it was all his making, though only one would know that. 

“May I smoke?” and barely waiting for permission he 
opened his case, selected a cigarette, tapped it hurriedly 
and, lighting it, threw the dead match with energy into 
the fire. 


100 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


4 ‘Well, from a woman’s point of view I have some very 
exciting news,” and as he uttered the words he faced Mrs. 
de Haviland again with that forced smile on his face. 

The smile did not deceive Mrs. de Haviland. She knew 
what was coming. 

“An engagement, Cleeve?” 

He nodded and turning his head slowly away stared into 
the fire. 

Mrs. de Haviland watched his movements with an appre¬ 
hensive feeling. The thing she most dreaded had certainly 
come to pass. 

“Whose?” she demanded in a quiet voice which belied 
the spasmodic heaving of her bosom as she waited for his 
reply, which came out with a finality that warned her she 
would not get much more information out of Cleeve that 
day. 

“Mine!” 

The blow, for it was a blow to Mrs. de Haviland, fell on 
prepared ground. There was nothing in her face to indi¬ 
cate that she was acting under any other influence than 
that of curiosity. 

“It’s never very exciting to hear a man is engaged, is 
it, Cleeve? You’ve only told half the story.” 

Cleeve looked at her for a moment and his eyes were 
thoughtful as though he were unravelling a difficult prob¬ 
lem. Then suddenly he blew out a puff of smoke, and rising 
from the chair, strolled over to the window and stood for a 
while looking at the fallen leaf. Mrs. de Haviland rose 
too, and crossing over, placed her hand on his shoulder and 
said softly, “Who is it, Cleeve?” 

He turned and faced her with that smile again on his 
face, only perhaps it appeared harder and more forced. 

4 4 Muriel Ryder, ’ ’ he answered slowly, and the smile faded 
as he saw the slight wince she gave. The next moment 
he thought he must have been mistaken, for she was heartily 
congratulating him. 

“But for fate your congratulations might have been a 
mockery.” 

“What do you mean, Cleeve?” 


AT LONGFIELD 101 

“I might have been engaged to a woman whom a short 
time back I thought had the ugliest soul on earth.’’ 

“D’you think it now?” 

“I can’t say.” 

“Has she a pretty exterior?” queried Mrs. de Haviland 
laughingly. 

“Such women always have,” he replied bitterly. “But 
I’d be fool enough now to say something silly again if I 
got the chance.” 

“The man who can’t be a fool sometimes, Cleeve, is not 
worth loving.” 

“Let’s change the subject, shall we? ... I want to get 
away from here for a time, and I have suggested to Mr. 
Ryder that we have a little pheasant shooting together. 
. . . Can you help me?” 

“Surely you both get enough shooting round here?” 

“Yes, we do. But I want to go away, I feel I want a 
little change, so does the padre.” 

Mrs. de Haviland walked back to her chair and reseated 
herself before replying. 

“I think I can help you. As a matter of fact there is a 
little shoot up in Norfolk which a friend of mine wants to 
let and I think I could get it for you. It’s only about a 
thousand acres, Cleeve, the keeper shared with a neighbour¬ 
ing estate, last year’s bag about 300 pheasants, 50 hares. 
Shooting box with three reception rooms, billiard room, 
ten bed and dressing rooms. ... I’ve got all the particu¬ 
lars, you see. ... I should think that’s just what you 
want.” 

“I think it’s rather small, and there’s bound to be com¬ 
plications with the other estate. Besides, we’d be bored 
stiff in a month in such a small shoot.” 

“No, you wouldn’t. There is sailing on the broads, and 
it’s quite close to the old town of Becclesfield. You know 
how that will delight Mr. Ryder. He’s so fond of poking 
about quaint old towns, and you can take Muriel sailing 
when you like.” 

“Yes, I forgot that,” said Cleeve, almost as though he 
were disappointed, and then brightening a little, he added: 
“And Mr. Ryder isn’t too well off, so I suppose we’ll have 
to consider the price. ... Is it fairly reasonable?” 


102 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“Quite,’’ Mrs. de Haviland replied reassuringly. “The 
people who are letting it are friends of mine, and they’re 
more concerned about getting tenants who will take care of 
their furniture than about getting a good price. The house 
is full of priceless old Chippendale, it’s a perfect little show 
place.” 

Cleeve’s face darkened. “Well, of course, left to my¬ 
self,” he said gloomily, “I should want a bigger shoot, but 
I’ve got to consider the old padre’s pocket, and you know 
what a stickler he is about paying his fair share.” 

“I should think it’s just the thing for the two of you. I 
believe my friend would take a hundred and fifty pounds, 
but they’re only letting if for a month. Would you like 
me to write now and make sure of it?” 

“Yes, please do,” murmured Cleeve. 

Mrs. de Haviland crossed over to the escritoire, and 
taking up a pen, commenced to write. . . . 

“My dear Millicent, 

“Once you told me you would do me any favour in the world, 
so I have taken you at your word and let your shooting without 
your consent! I have fixed the price at £150 (I couldn’t charge any 
more, as the Rev. Mr. Ryder wants to share it with Cleeve Barring¬ 
ton, and the rector can’t afford much) and like a good Samaritan 
you can give that as an offering for my peace of mind to any charity 
you like. I’ve promised they can have it from the first of October 
for a month, so just pack everything and come and stay with me. 
I’ll get your boys as much pheasant shooting here as they want. 

“Millicent, you must do this for me, you know why. . . 

Mrs. de Haviland, having scribbled off the letter, turned 
round on her chair, and with perfectly ingenuous frankness 
offered to read what she had written. 

Cleeve started and looked up quickly. He had been im¬ 
mersed in thought and had not quite caught her question. 

“Would you like me to read what I’ve written, Cleeve?” 
Mrs. de Haviland repeated. 

“Yes, if it’s not private.” 

Holding the letter out in front of her, Mrs. de Haviland 
commenced a recital. . . . 


AT LONGFIELD 


103 


“Dear Lady Mainwaring, 

“I received your letter asking me if I could possibly get a tenant 
for your shooting. I have agreed to let it for the sum you name 
to Mr. Cleeve Barrington whom I think you have met, and the Rev. 
Mr. Charles Ryder. I can promise you that the furniture will be 
well looked after, so you need have no concern on that account. 
I’m sorry that rapacious old milliner thinks you’ve more money 
than sense! 

“I’m very glad I have been able to arrange this for you, as I 
can now count on your coming here with Charlie and Alec. . . .” 

“You see what a good turn you’ve done me, Cleeve,” 
she said. “I’m very fond of Lady Mainwaring. By the 
way, the postscript’s interesting. Shall I read it?” and 
without waiting for him to reply, she continued: 

“P.S.— Cleeve Barrington is engaged to Muriel Ryder, so your 
snug little drawing room will make a pretty setting for the love¬ 
birds to bill and coo in!” 

“I hope you won’t give me that letter to post!” retorted 
Cleeve ominously. 

“Why not?” Mrs. de Haviland said in feigned astonish¬ 
ment. 

“Because with that postscript I shouldn’t post it.” 

Mrs. de Haviland heaved a sigh of regret. “What a 
pity you don’t like it, Cleeve. Now I suppose I can’t put 
it in.” 

“But you have put it in.” 

“Oh, no, I haven’t! It was just a suggestion of mine, 
and of course if you don’t want to bill and coo there’s no 
need for it,” she added blandly. 

Cleeve rose to go and Mrs. de Haviland gave a laugh of 
mingled amusement and satisfaction as she watched him 
get into his car and drive away. Then she went up to 
Yvonne’s room and tactfully broke the news of what she 
considered a perfectly ridiculous engagement. But of 
Cleeve’s journey to town by the ten o’clock train and the 
letting of the shooting at Becclesfield she spoke not a word. 


CHAPTER XVII 


'T'HE train was steaming into the station as Mrs. de Havi- 
* land’s car drove up to the entrance. 

“You run and get your ticket, Yvonne,” said Mrs. de 
Haviland. “Cecile and I will see to your luggage.” 

She waited until Yvonne reached the booking office and 
then hurriedly sought the platform. She was just in time 
to see Cleeve Barrington jump into an empty first-class 
carriage, which she carefully noted before rejoining 
Yvonne. 

There was not much time to lose and when a porter had 
put the luggage into the van Mrs. de Haviland rejoined her 
niece and, hurrying along the platform, she opened a first- 
class carriage door, and Yvonne jumped in just as the guard 
blew his whistle. 

“Good-bye, Aunt Eloise,” Yvonne said softly as she leant 
through the carriage window and kissed Mrs. de Haviland’s 
upturned face. 

****** 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. du Barry. This is an unexpected 
pleasure! ’ ’ 

“An unexpected hate, Mr. Barrington!” 

Cleeve gave a quick searching look at her face, but was 
unable to detect any signs of annoyance in her expression. 
On the other hand, he could perceive no decided signs of 
pleasure. 

As a matter of fact Yvonne had not yet made up her 
mind whether she was pleased or not with the situation. 
All she was aware of was that she somehow felt a sense of 
latent excitement, but an excitement which should be sup¬ 
pressed, at the thought that for an hour or more until the 
train arrived at London she would be alone with Cleeve 
Barrington. She stole a swift glance at him from under 
her lashes as he began speaking again. 

104 


AT LONGFIELD 


105 


“Do you ever give in?” he said pleadingly. “When 
we’re compelled to travel together why should we occupy 
our time in hating?” 

The words “do you ever give in?” melted the artificial 
hardness which she had thrown into her words. She had 
been dying to “give in” ever since he had called her that 
horrible name. For some reason which no rational ex¬ 
planation could justify it had just needed that word to 
pierce her armour, and the contempt expressed in his voice 
as he uttered it had cut her to the quick and made her 
realise more poignantly than ever the yearnings of her 
heart. For the first time in her life her heart had been 
wounded, and though she did not know how deep was the 
wound, or what pain it would in time create, she knew when 
they parted in the rose garden that she loved Cleeve Bar¬ 
rington as she would never love anyone again. It was that 
knowledge forcing itself into her mind which made her 
eyes grow soft as she replied in a low regretful tone: “An 
unkind fate seems to render it impossible, don’t you think?” 

“What do you mean? I can’t see what fate has to do 
with it,” he said, speaking the first words that came to his 
lips, words which really belied his own belief. 

“Fate brought us together, didn’t it? And whenever 
we meet it seems to produce a quarrel from nowhere. I’m 
sure you’ve hated me and I think I . . . have ...” 

“Yes?” 

“Well,” Yvonne continued reluctantly, “I suppose I’ve 
had the same feeling for you.” 

Cleeve Barrington turned his head and looked out of the 
window before replying; this girl of many moods was an 
enigma to him. He was struggling with his desire to suc¬ 
cumb once more to the irresistible charm she seemed to 
exercise, struggling with his sense of honour, and struggling 
with the thought that if he once let drop his shield her 
mood would change to one of malicious amusement. But 
even as he struggled he knew the fight was lost. 

“They say hate is really akin to love,” he said before he 
could stay the words and then, as she remained silent, he 
continued recklessly: “Shall we cheat fate this time?” 

“And?” she added in an expressionless voice. 

“Be nice,” he concluded impulsively. 


106 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“Do you think you could ?” she laughed gently. 
“Wouldn’t the change be too much for us?” 

Cleeve looked at her, and suddenly remembered and re¬ 
gretted the impetuosity which had prompted him to become 
engaged to Muriel Ryder. He wondered if Yvonne had 
heard the news, and then laughed exultantly. Why should 
he regret anything? He had only promised to marry, and 
this tantalising creature beside him, already married, had 
laid herself out to attract and then, when she had suc¬ 
ceeded, taken a delight in flaunting her wedding ring under 
his nose. If she could play with fire why shouldn’t he? 
There was some mystery about Yvonne he felt sure, 
but that she was married he had no doubt. He 1 had 
questioned Mrs. de Haviland about it on the night of the 
dance and that lady had looked very enigmatical as she 
replied: “Why do you want to know, Cleeve? Are you 
attracted?” He had contented himself with shrugging his 
shoulders and Mrs. de Haviland had added: “I thought 
you had a reputation for acting first and thinking after¬ 
wards.” . . . “Perhaps I’ve earned it in this case,” he had 
answered. “Who knows? . . . But I would not from 
choice marry a widow, and I certainly wouldn’t like to lose 
my heart to a married woman.” ... He had missed the 
twinkle in Mrs. de Haviland’s eyes as she replied, “Well, 
she’s not a widow, Cleeve, and you’d have to face a very 
irate gentleman if you trod on that grass plot. ’ ’ And then, 
looking him straight in the face she had added: “I 
wouldn’t think any more about her if I were you. My own 
impression is that if a man doesn’t like anyone sufficiently 
to get over his antipathy for widowhood his attraction is 
only skin deep.” 

Cleeve had not replied; he knew his attraction was more 
than skin deep, but that reference to the grass plot and 
Yvonne’s behaviour in the rose garden had convinced him 
that she was married. 

Now in spite of that knowledge, in spite of his sense of 
honour, he had a rising and overwhelming desire to play 
with fire. . . . “You don’t know how lovable she is,” Mrs. 
de Haviland had said; those words had somehow carried 
conviction and that conviction now doped his conscience. 
It spoke the words of the serpent in his ears. . . . “If you 


AT LONGFIELD 


107 


can make sure that all Mrs. de Haviland said is true your 
ideals will be restored. Your faith in woman will live 
again. When you proposed to Muriel were you actuated 
by love or some other impulse? Are not most marriages 
failures? Would the woman by your side act as she has 
done if hers were a heaven blessed union? Do you want 
to add another marriage to the long, long list of failures? 
Be sensible, Cleeve, for you now have the opportunity to 
choose one of two things. . . . Loyalty to a promise, in 
making which you were not a free agent, and the unhappi¬ 
ness it will surely bring—or the restoration of your faith 
and love,” and while he listened to the temptation of the 
serpent he lingered on her words. . . . “Wouldn’t the 
change be too much for us?” Somehow he was glad she 
had used the word “us.” 

“Besides,” said Yvonne, breaking in suddenly on his 
thoughts, “what’s the use of being nice? We only quarrel 
in the end. You see, Mr. Barrington, you’ve had matters 
so much your own way, haven’t you?” There was just 
a slight ring of bitterness in her voice. 

“I think one always does when one’s not very keen about 
it, don’t you?” 

Yvonne turned her head quickly and gave a merry girlish 
laugh. “What a compliment! You express a desire to 
cheat fate and follow it up with a remark which makes me 
infer you’re not very keen about it!” 

The laugh was infectious; Cleeve gave a very audible 
chuckle. “Oh, yes, I am! And it isn’t that we’re locked 
up together for an hour that made me say it. To tell you 
the truth, I’m awfully sorry for what I said in the rose 
garden, I don’t know what made me do it; I suppose it 
was the sudden knowledge that you were not free to love.” 

“But I am free to love.” 

“Mrs. du Barry, don’t say that. It hurts. No married 
woman is free to love; don’t destroy my faith.” 

“But I am. Perhaps we look on things differently from 
men. Some of us have to marry . . . circumstances, you 
knowT . . and some of us aren’t frank, we pretend we 
love when we don’t, but others make it quite clear when 
they marry that they don’t love and never will. I think 


108 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


the latter are quite free to love, don’t you? . . . That is, 
when they can’t help it.” 

“I don’t know,” said Cleeve a little sarcastically. “I 
thought when a woman married she took a vow to love, 
honour and obey.” 

“Yes, but it appears to me that a vow to love when 
you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t love is not 
binding. Anyway, aren’t we getting a little bit out of our 
depths? You 1 can never quite put yourself in another’s 
position.” She smiled and then added slowly, “I can love, 
Mr. Barrington, and when the right man comes along I 
shall love him, and no vow I’ve ever taken will prevent 
me, even though I can never marry him.” 

“But isn’t that rather a hopeless kind of love?” 

“I suppose it is, but it’s also rather unselfish.” 

It was now Cleeve’s turn to have his armour penetrated. 
The word “unselfish” struck him a sudden blow. He 
looked at Yvonne to see if the word had been used inten¬ 
tionally, but she was staring out of the window with a far¬ 
away look in her eyes, and he realised how accidental its 
utterance was. Yes, that was what was wrong with his 
love. At the Three Arts Ball five years ago it had been sel¬ 
fish, he had not considered her, only his own desires. It 
had only been of himself he was thinking when they had 
had that scene in Mrs. de Haviland’s ball room. It had 
only been his own desires of which he had been thinking 
when he had made that proposal to her in the rose garden. 
He had not thought of her wishes, he had just tried to reap 
where he had not sown. He felt he wanted to, must ex¬ 
plain. He wished to set himself right in Yvonne’s estima¬ 
tion, but had he been wise he would have left matters as 
they were. Unknown to himself he loved this girl too 
deeply to bare his soul. The desire to stand well in her 
estimation was a bar to his belittling himself, and he did 
not realise that such an understanding as his circumstances 
permitted must perforce undermine her self-respect. He 
had never been in a similar position before, and did not 
know that he was bound to act as most people act when 
they are in love. . . . On the defensive. 

“Mrs. du Barry, I think I owe you an apology for the 


AT LONGFIELD 


109 


way I have acted and spoken lately. I want to explain 
things, if you will let me!” 

Yvonne was stirred; she wanted an explanation, one 
which would enable her to be frank with herself, one that 
would permit her to cherish her love for him. She was 
aware that he had become engaged to Muriel Ryder and, 
woman-like, she wanted some salve for her conscience. She 
knew that he had to marry, she had heard the reasons from 
her aunt, and so she made allowances for him. But wait¬ 
ing, hanging on his words, hoping that he would tell her 
that had things been different she and he might have been 
more to one another than friends, she whispered—she could 
do no more than whisper, her emotions were too strong— 
“I would like you to, for there is something I, too, want to 
get off my mind.” 

4 ‘Well, I’ve already told you that I love you, but now 
I want to tell you that it is the kind of love that drives 
me mad. It seems to appeal to a perverse instinct in me 
—a desire to possess—and I’m sure there is another kind 
of love, one which wants to build up instead of destroy.” 

Yvonne sighed. Unconsciously he had voiced something 
of which she thought she was subconsciously aware. It 
seemed as though she were predestined to stir men’s pas¬ 
sions and not their love. Some wicked strain in her, she 
thought, the result of her birth, the result of having an 
unknown mother. And here was this man on whose love 
she set such store telling her that it was only passion she 
had stirred, but telling her in a way which struck her dumb. 
There was no contempt in his voice, no bitter reviling, just 
the plain statement, it seemed to her, that she appealed to 
all that was bad in his nature. This man, the only man 
who had ever stirred the real woman in her, was, unknown 
to himself, hitting her harder blows than he had ever struck 
in all the fierceness of his temper, and before she realised 
it or could help herself the tears sprang to her eyes. 

“Oh, Yvonne, what have I said,” he exclaimed with 
remorse. “I wouldn’t hurt you for worlds! I love you, 
I’ve always loved you, you know it’s the truth.” He put 
out his hand and took hers, looking at her pleadingly. “I 
know we can’t marry, I know it only too well, but if you 
love me I’ll marry no one else. I’ll live just for your love 


110 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


and that alone, and my life will be as unselfish as your 
own. All I ask, dear, is one kiss, a kiss which will blot 
out the memory of those others, a kiss to cherish through 
life. 7, 

A smile shone through her tears. The inclination to kiss 
him was great, it was expressed in her eyes and, putting 
his arm round her, he drew her slowly towards him. 

The kiss which would have sealed the bond had almost 
been exchanged, and, had it been, the deep love which they 
bore each other would have risen pure and triumphant 
above all obstacles, but for one second he hesitated, his 
mind flew back to those other kisses and the result. His 
hesitation was fatal, for, as he waited, she seemed to hear 
once more his cry that he wanted a love which would build 
and not destroy, and without a word she disengaged herself 
from his encircling arm. 

“No, it would never do,” she said quietly. “In the first 
place you’re not free to talk to me like that. I know you’re 
engaged to Miss Ryder. Unconsciously you have admitted 
that the attraction I have for you is one that appeals 
to your lower senses. You have made it clear that you 
yearn for a love which will build and not destroy, and you 
were thinking of the love you have for Muriel Ryder when 
you spoke like that.” 

“No, Yvonne ...” 

She put out her hand to stay the interruption. “Let 
me finish, please. Aunt Eloise told me that you had prom¬ 
ised your mother to marry soon. Do you think I would 
be a party to your breaking that promise knowing that 
you can’t marry me? You have already told your mother 
of your engagement, and do you think I would let a love 
which, on your own confession is a sordid thing, come be¬ 
tween you and your mother? ... I should never forgive 
myself! And do you think that even if I did love you— 
and I don’t!—I would let my love come between you and 
your ambitions? You can never marry me, I could never 
break down the bonds which hold me. Forget me, Mr. 
Barrington, as I shall forget you.” 

She knew, even as she spoke, that she would never forget 
him, but this horrid thing on which his love was founded 
should be destroyed for ever. 


AT LONGFIELD 


111 


“Your first impression of me was the right one ... I 
have no heart, no soul. I am incapable of inspiring a love 
such as you desire. I am that odious thing you called me, 
soulless, heartless, just stirring men’s passions and tramp¬ 
ling all their finer feelings in the dust. Have you not had 
proof of it on two occasions! Have I not used all my at¬ 
tractions to tempt you and then, when I have taunted you 
beyond your powers of endurance, have I not delighted 
in telling you that you are no more to me than other men! 
And I have done it just to satisfy . . . my vanity! Fate 
decreed, from the moment we met, that we should hate one 
another, and now I tell you to your face that I do hate you. 
I hate you more than any man I have ever met because, if 
you want to know, you make the same appeal to me as I 
make to you. And do you think I loathe you less than you 
loathe me because you make no appeal to my real love! 
... I, too, want a love which will build and not destroy. 
And I tell you now if you had appealed to other emotions 
—no, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m not all I should 
be!—I would have loved you and sought you from the 
nethermost ends of the world, even if I had to break the 
most sacred vows that ever woman took! Now do you 
understand! Do you understand that a woman can have 
passion and yet be pure!” 

“No, I don’t understand,” said Cleeve vehemently. 
“You’re the one thing or the other, not both! And that 
you are the odious thing you make out, I don’t believe! 
No, nor did I believe it when in my temper the other day 
I said you were. I was mad, mad to talk to you like that!” 
But even as he spoke the grating sounds of the brakes slow¬ 
ing down the train warned him that the journey was 
nearing its end. 

Oh, how Yvonne wanted to tell him that he had spoken 
the truth. How she would have liked to tell him that her 
love had goaded her to act as she acted, and if there had 
been no Muriel things would have been so different. How 
she wanted to tell him that her love for him was so great 
that she would willingly sacrifice all for him. Disgrace! 
What did disgrace matter where love was concerned! . . . 
Then she remembered his political ambitions, seemed to 


112 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


hear once more his cry, “I feel there is another kind of 
love—one that wants to build and not destroy/’ 

That love was hers and it would not destroy. Looking 
at him with unwavering eyes she continued in a firm, con¬ 
trolled voice: 

“I’ve spoken the truth, Mr. Barrington, and when you 
are alone and reflect on the emotions you have experienced 
from my presence you will realise your mistake. No man 
can help himself when a woman who attracts him is deter- 
nined he shall fall; and when you are alone and think of 
what you’ve told me you will loathe yourself for letting 
your infatuation once more temporarily obliterate the love 
which Muriel Ryder has a right to claim.” 

The train stopped, and while he searched his mind for 
a reply to her bewildering, fantastic arguments, she opened 
the carriage door and slipped out. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


IT was late in the afternoon when Cleeve Barrington com- 
* menced his return journey, and except for the few 
minutes spent in the taxi on the way to the Courtneys’ 
house in Berkeley Square he had had little time for re¬ 
flection. 

In the first place he had no sooner been admitted than 
Mrs. Courtney button-holed him for a tete-a-tete conversa¬ 
tion and, woman-like, she had interlarded leading but subtle 
questions, calculated to ascertain how Mrs. de Haviland’s 
scheme progressed, with details of her husband’s indisposi¬ 
tion and the business on which Cleeve had been called. 
Then came lunch and afterwards a long interview with the 
patient, whom he found in a very depressed mood, so de¬ 
pressed that Cleeve had not the heart to refuse the old 
man’s request to act as executor to his will. It was a 
responsibility Cleeve did not welcome, for Mr. Courtney 
referred to many unsound concerns in which he had been 
persuaded to invest considerable sums of money, and Cleeve 
had little difficulty in realising that the glowing accounts 
of the professional company promoter and the promise of 
lucrative seats on various Boards had lured him into un¬ 
sound speculations. As the recital continued the precarious 
nature of Mr. Courtney’s financial position became appar¬ 
ent. His anxiety of mind to conceal from his wife the real 
state of affairs was pathetic. His pleas that Cleeve could 
not make a worse mess of things, and that his other friends 
were either more or less in the same boat or too advanced 
in years to undertake the task successfully, were irresistible. 
And so in the end, Cleeve fell in with the suggestion, ac¬ 
cepted his responsibilities, and, refusing even Mrs. Court¬ 
ney’s pressing invitation to stay the night, commenced as 
soon as he could his return journey home. 

He wanted to be alone and his luck was in, for as the 

113 


114 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


train steamed out of the station he found himself the sole 
occupant of a first class carriage and, leaning back with a 
sigh of relief, he gave himself up to thought. At first his 
thoughts concentrated on Mr. Courtney’s' indisposition, 
which appeared to be more mental than physical; on the 
position in which Mrs. Courtney would find herself should 
anything serious happen. Other thoughts, more personal, 
were whispering to him, but for a time he was successful 
in keeping them in the background. He forced himself to 
speculate on the possibility of persuading Mr. Courtney, 
even at that late hour, to cut his losses, retrieve what he 
could and, under proper advice, put the savings of the 
wreck into sound investments; on the possibility of effect¬ 
ing retrenchments in every way before fate called on Mrs. 
Courtney to face the inevitable, on the tact which would 
be necessary to induce Mr. Courtney to dispose of his ex¬ 
pensive town house and seek residence in a less expensive 
neighbourhood. 

Cleeve pondered over all these things. He considered if 
he accepted the post of executor that it was his duty to see 
there was an estate to administer, and, for Mrs. Courtney’s 
sake, he was determined to waste no time in influencing 
Mr. Courtney to take immediate steps to conserve what still 
remained and economise in every possible way. 

But in spite of the seriousness of all these issues, those 
other thoughts kept whispering and gradually interest in 
the Courtneys’ affairs was overshadowed by his own. He 
felt fate had played him what he called a scurvy trick, 
but deep down in his heart he knew he had played it on 
himself. Yvonne’s emphatic rejection of his advances had 
only served for the time being to introduce the magnifying 
glass of self-analysis through which he saw a more despic¬ 
able self than he had ever seen before. As time passed 
his thoughts grew complex and disjointed and, filled with 
an overwhelming sense of self-contempt, he spoke them to 
himself. 

“What on earth made me go and propose again? . . . 
Like a silly moth round a candle! ’ ’ 

Then followed a few hazy half-formed thoughts . . . 
“Damned fool! Vacillating idiot!” After which followed 
more half-formed thoughts . . . “Don’t know my own mind 


AT LONGFIELD 


115 


for two minutes together. Sickening! Sickening! No 
one but a devil’s cur would propose to one girl and then 
run after another. . . . And a married woman at that!” 
Good God! was there any limit to the depth he could fall? 

Followed a few minutes’ silence, during which: more 
muddled thoughts stampeded through his brain. . . . 
“Love! I spoke about love?” He gave a scornful laugh. 
“Love! . . . Why I don’t possess such a thing, What 
I possess would disgrace the instincts of a dog!” 
He rose from his seat and stood erect for a moment. 
“Smiled superciliously—didn’t I?—when Mrs. de Haviland 
said I was little more than a boy.” At this thought he 
clenched his teeth, a snarling expression parted his lips, 
while he gave a heavy self-inflicted slap on his thigh which 
made him wince. “Boy? ... I’m not even that, and 
there’s poor old Courtney treating me like a man and I’ve 
all those airy notions about pulling him straight when I 
can’t go straight myself!” 

He reseated himself. “And Muriel trusts me; said she’d 
always loved me and t that I’d always been her hero! 
. . . Hero? My God! What a hero for any woman to 
love! . . . Make promises as sacred as marriage vows and 
. . . Well, no one could loathe me more than I loathe 
myself. It’s something to know my own weakness. Fact 
is, I don’t know what I do want; it wouldn’t surprise 
me now if, when I marry Muriel, I left her at the church 
door and chivied a broomstick with a petticoat on it!” 

The latter thought brought a smile to his face, and the 
smile somehow tempered his self-loathing. 

He gazed absently out of the window and a quieter mood 
followed as the train rushed on past cornfields swaying in 
the breeze, reflecting tints which vied with the golden 
and deep red glow of the evening sky, on, past silent streams 
which seemed to hold and retain the tranquillity of an 
autumn evening. Cleeve Barrington envied that tran¬ 
quillity. What a peaceful world it was outside men’s busy, 
bursting thoughts. How vain men’s ambitions, how vain 
the cares which rack their minds! The world seemed made 
for peace, and yet as he reflected on his own position the 
incongruity of it all struck him. But strive as he would 
he could not put his own troubles out of mind. 


116 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Here he was, in love with Yvonne, worshipping the very- 
ground she trod, worshipping one who, judged by her 
own words and actions, was a soulless, heartless vampire. 
It was well fate had intervened! He saw the hand of fate 
in everything. It had given him a long lease of freedom, 
and only when he was making a fool of himself had it 
enmeshed him in its inexorable net. His mother’s illness 
had tightened the cords, and then, as if to show him that 
there was no escape, it had exposed a side of Yvonne’s 
character which had shattered the dream his mind had 
previously conjured. 

Yes, fate had stepped into his life at an opportune 
moment to show him that his dream would never become 
a reality, to prove to him that an ideal face could shelter a 
character as repulsive as the face was attractive. It had 
allowed the possessor to play on his feelings, to stir his 
masculinity to its depths, and then, when he could not 
believe that such beauty could house so repulsive a soul, 
it had thrust them together in the train and forced a cold, 
dispassionate statement of wanton sacrilege from the only 
lips that had ever really appealed to him, a statement which 
had utterly destroyed every ideal of his heart. 

She said she could love! And almost in the same breath 
prided herself on her power to stir the devil in him. Yes, 
it wanted this stroke of fate to convince him that he had 
done right in proposing to Muriel. 

He looked out at the scene again. Tranquillity and 
peace! Yes, he could have both if he didn’t loathe himself 
so much. What if Yvonne had given him what she called 
her love? What if she had hidden from him her wanton 
mind? . . . Would he have gone back to Muriel and broken 
the engagement, giving up the substance for the shadow 
of love? . . . Oh, how he loathed Yvonne now, but he 
loathed himself fifty times more. What low strain in him 
made him do these despicable things? . . . Well, he 
couldn’t help his nature but he could banish the thought 
of Yvonne from his mind and he would do it! He would 
begin afresh with Muriel and leave no stone unturned to 
make himself worthy of the real love and trust he had 
obtained. 


BOOK II 

AT BEGCLESFIELD 















CHAPTER XIX 


A17HEN Yvonne arrived home a tall, aristocratic figure 
” came forward to give her a warm and affectionate 
welcome. 

“Oh, Yvonne, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve returned. 
You don’t know how I’ve missed you. But your telegram 
was a surprise! What’s happened ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing, daddy dear,” Yvonne replied with a want of 
enthusiasm quite foreign to her usual mode of greeting her 
father, and the change struck him at once; to him her 
voice sounded dull and lifeless. 

“Yvonne, something has happened, I know! You’re 
not like my bright, happy little girl.” He took her face 
between his hands and gazed earnestly into her eyes and 
was struck by the change; the light had gone from them. 

“Something has happened, Yvonne! I promised your 
aunt that you should stay a fortnight and after an absence 
of a few days you send me a telegram asking me to recall 
you by wire. The light has gone from your eyes, your 
voice has changed . . . and . . . and now you’re back you 
don’t seem to be quite pleased. It’s a very different 
homecoming from what I expected.” 

Yvonne sighed. She had left Cleeve Barrington with the 
light laugh of one who seemed to rejoice in a victory over 
the opposite sex, regardless of how deeply wounded was 
the heart she toyed with, but the laugh had died quickly 
as she continued her journey alone. It had been hard to 
give up the man she loved, but infinitely harder to give 
him up in a way which she felt sure would drive him back 
again, and for ever, into the arms of Muriel Ryder. 

Mr. du Barry had spoken the truth, the light had gone 
from her eyes, just as hope had left her soul. She had 
driven love from her heart, and the task of driving 

119 


was 


120 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


none the less hard because she had driven it away almost 
before it had found its home. 

Yet in spite of the despondency which had settled round 
her she cherished the thought that she had not made her 
sacrifice in vain. The words of Cleeve Barrington still 
rang in her ears: “I have already told you that I love you; 
but I want to tell you that it is the kind of love which 
drives me mad. ” . . . Oh, how true his words were, so 
true of her own love, so true that the very thought of its 
power frightened her. A power which seemed to over¬ 
whelm every moral instinct, so great that it would have 
taken very little persuasion on his part for her to give it 
rein. How near she had been to giving it rein only she 
herself knew, for she had made up her mind—when waiting 
for that kiss, the kiss which never came—to break the 
bonds which held her, made up her mind to tell her father 
that she could not go on with the pact, to tell him she was 
young and wanted her freedom like other girls, and to 
demand her release from the solemn promises she had made. 

She had given Cleeve Barrington his chance, more than 
his chance. ... “I can love, Mr. Barrington, and when 
the right man comes along I shall love him, and no vow 
I’ve ever taken will prevent me.” How his reply: ‘ 4 Isn’t 
that rather a hopeless kind of love?” had hurt her! It 
had shown her, in spite of all he had said to the contrary, 
that the love he had confessed was the hopeful kind of 
love, and because she loved so deeply and so truly she had 
sent him back to Muriel, had spoken in a way which she 
knew would change every vestige of affection he had for 
her to loathing, and she had done this because she placed 
his happiness before her own. 

There was no pettiness about Yvonne’s love, not in 
things that mattered. But the struggle had changed her 
from a girl to a woman, and now, in the presence of her 
father, she felt the time had come to challenge her fetters. 

“Yes, something has happened,” she said deliberately. 
“But I’m rather tired, daddy dear, we’ll have tea first and 
then I’ll tell you.” 

The cloud of anxiety which had settled on Mr. du Barry’s 
brow deepened as she drew off her gloves and crossed the 


AT BECCLESFIELD 121 

room to ring the bell. . . . There was no wedding ring on 
her finger. 

Even the most casual observer would have seen that 
father and daughter thoroughly understood and, what was 
more, thoroughly respected one another, for in spite of 
Mr. du Barry’s anxious mien he refrained from pressing his 
questions and, seating himself in the armchair he had been 
occupying when Yvonne entered, he resigned himself to 
the inevitable delay. 

“How is your aunt?” he said, changing the subject. 

The door opened and a manservant entered noiselessly. 

“Jenner, will you bring in tea?” Yvonne said, speaking 
in French, then turning to her father, she added: “I’m 
sorry, daddy, I didn’t catch what you said,” and after 
a moment’s pause added apologetically: “I’ve got a 
headache.” 

“I only asked how you found your aunt. . . . But my 
questions can wait. Shall I get you an aspirin?” 

“No, thank you. I’ll be all right as soon as I’ve had 
tea. . . . Aunt Eloise was just sweet, she always is.” 

“How is she looking, Yvonne?” 

“I think she’s looking a little older, daddy. I don’t 
know why it is, but I somehow thought this time that she 
has some trouble on her mind.” 

“Tut, tut! Nothing of the kind! You’ll be telling me 
next that she’s in love.” 

Yvonne poured out a cup of tea before replying, handed 
it to her father and then, filling a cup for herself, began to 
sip the hot tea slowly. 

“That’s just what I am going to tell you. I thought it 
when she was in Switzerland last year, and I’m sure of it 
now.” 

Mr. du Barry gave her a searching look, a look not 
altogether free from apprehension, but Yvonne was too 
intent on drinking her tea to notice it. Then he made a 
sudden movement as though to throw off unwelcome 
thoughts and laughed with apparent unconcern as he said: 
“Whatever makes you think that?” 

“I don’t think it, I’m sure of it,” said Yvonne con¬ 
fidently. “I know she never loved her husband, you’ve 
often told me so, and Mrs. Courtney told me she was in 


122 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


love with someone else when she married. Besides, you 
can see it in her manner, she’s always wanting to make 
things brighter and happier for others. She even solicited 
my aid as a foil to bring Cleeve Barrington and Muriel 
Ryder together.” 

Mr. du Barry looked up with an expression of interest in 
his eyes, eyes which were remarkably like his daughter’s, 
only not such a deep colour. 

“Cleeve Barrington and Muriel Ryder! Are they 
engaged?” 

“Well, I don’t know that it’s official yet; Aunt Eloise 
only told me last evening, but she didn’t look at all pleased. 
I think when people are in love they are like that. They 
want to help others, but when the thing for which they are 
working is accomplished, they have a little pang of regret 
that the happiness which falls to others is denied them. 
I’m sure Aunt Eloise is in love, she’s so sympathetic. And 
when she thinks no one is looking she has her dreams. For 
if you look into her eyes, which are so soft and caressing 
in those moments, you somehow feel your thoughts are 
carried far away with hers to the land she dreams of.” 

While Yvonne spoke Mr. du Barry kept stirring his tea 
mechanically and when she finished he was apparently 
very much engrossed in the task of chasing a tea-leaf with 
his spoon. Yvonne looked at him curiously for a few 
seconds. . . . That tea-leaf was very elusive! 

“Shall I get it out for you?” 

“No, my dear, it’s gone now,” he said, but he did not 
lift his gaze from the cup as he added: “How is the head¬ 
ache, Yvonne?” 

“It’s almost gone. . . . Daddy, you wanted to know 
why I sent you that telegram?” 

Mr. du Barry looked up quickly, there was a strange, 
questioning look in his eyes. 

“Because I’m in love with Cleeve Barrington myself.” 
She was looking steadfastly at her father as she spoke. 
His hand began to shake as though with a palsy and 
suddenly the cup he was holding slipped from its saucer 
and fell with a crash to the oak floor. 

“Good God! Yvonne, you don’t know what you’re 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


123 


saying! You must be mad! How can you love? You’ve 
no right to love!” 

Yvonne rose quietly and rang the bell. “Jenner,” she 
said as the man appeared, “bring another cup for Mr. du 
Barry. And will you wipe the floor, we’ve had an 
accident. ’ ’ 

As soon as they were alone Yvonne began speaking 
again. 

“I don’t think you have anything to fear, daddy, I’ve 
already told you that he is engaged to Muriel Ryder. But 
I’m going to return you the wedding ring, I’m not going to 
pretend I’m married any more.” 

“Yvonne, you must not speak to me like that,” said her 
father sharply. “There’s no going back on the promises 
you made. When you made them I took you completely 
into my confidence, I explained my exact position, I made 
everything as clear as I could. I told you that if ever you 
became engaged it would open out a terrible scandal. For 
myself I don’t care, my thoughts are for somebody far 
dearer to me. If it is true that you love Cleeve Barrington, 
then you know that there is no sacrifice you would not 
make to protect his good name. And it is just as necessary 
for me to protect the name of the woman I love.” 

“That’s just it, daddy. I’ve only your word to go 
on.” 

“You have only my word to go on,” Mr. du Barry 
repeated the words incredulously, as though he could hardly 
believe his ears. “What do you mean? Isn’t my word 
enough? Oh, I never thought you would doubt me like 
that, Yvonne,” he added sorrowfully. 

“I don’t doubt you, dear,” Yvonne said gently. “I 
know everything you say is true. But can’t you see that 
you haven’t been frank with me? I don’t know what 
scandal I’m protecting. . . . Whether it concerns only that 
lady, or you as well, or if it may not somehow concert! 
me. I know you’re my father, but I don’t know who my 
mother is, you’ll never tell me. All I have to go on is 
what my old nurse said . . . that she thought she was a 
French lady. When I asked you if it were true you said 


124 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


you couldn’t tell me, but you didn’t deny it, daddy. And 
don’t you see that the promise I gave you can’t last? . . . 

I was young when I gave it, too young to understand, and 
I want you to realise that that promise has wrecked my 
life. I could have married Cleeve Barrington, for he 
proposed to me. It was that silly promise I made that put 
me in a false position. But I shan’t do anything that you 
need be afraid of; although I can’t see why my marriage 
should bring any scandal to light. You gave me the 
alternatives of promising not to marry and wearing a 
wedding ring, or the convent. I have loved now and 
learnt . . . many things. I love Cleeve as I could never 
love anyone else, and for your sake I’ve sent him into the 
arms of another. If I can renounce the ties of love, I can 
renounce the ties of parentage. As long as I only loved 
you, the yoke you placed upon me was a light one, but now 
it’s a cross I can’t carry in a free world, the only place I 
can carry it is in the shelter of a convent where there will 
be others, who carry similar crosses, to help me. Daddy, 
can’t you understand? . . . There is a higher love than 
the love of man, and I must attain it now or lose my soul.” 

“Yvonne, you can’t mean this, you can’t!” Mr. du 
Barry’s face suddenly looked white and lined, and there 
was a stricken, helpless look in his eyes. “I’m getting on 
in years, my child. I bear a grief the intensity of which 
not even you can guess, and would you leave me, an old 
man, all alone in this big house? You can’t realise to 
what you are condemning me. There would be no Yvonne 
to ease my burden; my waking hours would be as hopeless 
as the long hours of the night when your smiles and laughter 
are taken from me, those long hours when I lie awake 
praying for the dawn again, and you. You wouldn’t take 
my few happy hours from me, Yvonne, would you?” 

Yvonne looked at her father, and for the first time saw 
tears in his eyes, she saw the change in him, the signs of age 
creeping over him, and suddenly she realised that her 
father who had always sheltered her and appeared so 
strong and self-reliant was nothing more than a helpless 
child pleading for her care. 

She crossed over to the mantelpiece, picked up her hand- 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


125 


bag, and, opening it, took out her wedding ring and slowly 
replaced it on her finger. She crossed over to her father, 
put her arms round his neck and looked deep into his eyes, 
which were raised to hers with a pleading expression in 
their depths. 

“No, daddy, I ) couldn't,” she answered sadly. “As 
long as I can help you to be happy Ill stay.’* 


CHAPTER XX 


44VTOT bad sport, Cleeve, was it?” 

It was the Rev. Mr. Ryder who was speaking, and his 
round, red face beamed with contentment as he made the 
remark. 

‘‘Not at all, sir.” 

“Let me see, how many pheasants did we get? . . . 
Forty-five, and eight hares. I call this an ideal little shoot 
and wonderfully cheap.” 

“I think, dear,” said Mrs. Ryder reprovingly, “that 
Cleeve would like to have a little talk with Muriel, wouldn’t 
you, Cleeve?” 

Cleeve looked at the speaker and murmured a vague 
reply. 

Mrs. Ryder smiled indulgently. “Well, Cleeve, I’m sure 
you’d like a little chat with Muriel before you go to bed, 
wouldn’t you? There’s a nice fire in the study and it 
would be a pity to waste it. But don’t hold hands too 
long, children!” she concluded archly. 

Muriel rose and walked quickly towards the door and 
then, wondering why Cleeve was not following, looked back 
at him invitingly. 

He got up slowly, and moving aside with his foot the 
footstool it had been resting on, he sauntered after her. 

“I think Cleeve wanted to sit and talk a bit,” observed 
Mr. Ryder, when they had departed. “Half the fun of 
sport is talking about it after dinner.” 

“Now, Charles, don’t be selfish!” said his wife, “Re¬ 
member, dear, you were young yourself once. If it’s fine 
to-morrow we’ll join you at lunch and Cleeve and Muriel 
can have a little picnic to themselves, then to-morrow 
night you can have a longer chat with Cleeve.” 
##*##* 

As Cleeve passed through the study door he stood for a 

126 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


127 


moment watching Muriel as she settled herself comfortably 
at one end of the chesterfield. 

“Come and sit here, Cleeve, ,, she invited, patting a 
cushion into place. 

Cleeve crossed over to the chesterfield and sat down 
reluctantly. He didn’t feel like having “a little chat 
with Muriel” that night. Besides, she looked so sure of 
herself and him. But as he sat down she nestled close 
and, putting her arms round his neck, kissed him softly on 
the cheek. 

“Oh, Cleeve, I do so love you,” she murmured. “I 
know I don’t deserve you and sometimes I think you don’t 
love me, not as I love you.” 

“Of course I do, Muriel. Why do you say such a thing?” 

“Well, you never kiss me unless I ask you, and you 
didn’t seem at all eager to come here. I thought you were 
never going to get out of that chair. And then, Cleeve, I 
can’t forget that look on your face when you were dancing 
with Yvonne.” 

Cleeve moved away with an irritable shrug of his 
shoulders. “Why do you always bring that up? I’ve 
told you it’s finished; I’ve told you I wouldn’t marry her 
if there wasn’t another woman in the world.” 

“But I can’t forget it,” Muriel said miserably. “And 
I want to make sure of our love. It would be a terrible 
thing if we were to marry and then discover we didn’t 
really love one another.” 

Cleeve made no reply. 

“Is Yvonne the only girl you’ve kissed?” Muriel asked 
presently. 

“Good Lord, no!” He gave an amused chuckle. 

Muriel looked at him with dismay. “But you won’t kiss 
another girl now you’re engaged to me, will you, Cleeve?” 

“My dear Muriel, I can’t tell. It’s a habit of mine and 
habits are hard to break,” said Cleeve laughingly. 

“Do you really mean me to believe that it is a habit of 
yours to kiss anyone who . . . who wants you to kiss her ? ’ ’ 
She could understand anyone wanting to kiss him, and felt 
a little pang of jealousy. 

“Not exactly, Muriel. I only kiss girls who don’t want 
to kiss me; there’s no fun in it if the girl wants to kiss. 


128 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


The more she hates kisses the more I enjoy the kissing. 
And, of course, she must be pretty; that is why pretty 
faces are made, they’re absolutely essential to kisses!” 

“Cleeve, I don’t think you can love me when you talk 
like that!” said Muriel sharply. 

‘‘ Good Lord, Muriel, I was only chaffing you, love has 
nothing to do with kisses! A pretty girl expects to be 
kissed, doesn’t she?” 

“Z don’t expect to be kissed and you say I am pretty!” 
She regarded him frowningly for a moment and then, con¬ 
tinuing in a reproachful voice, said: ‘‘Why do you always 
say ‘Good Lord’? It hurts me a little when I hear you.” 

“Good Lord, Muriel, I didn’t think you were as sensitive 
as that! . . . It’s another habit of mine. I’m afraid I’m 
so full of habits that I’d be quite lonely without them.” 

“If you really loved me,” said Muriel| gently, “it 
wouldn’t be hard to give them up. I’d do anything for 
you, Cleeve.” 

“You know I love you, Muriel, but I’m tired. I wonder 
why you girls all believe in that silly love business you 
read about in modern novels? . . . The all-consuming fire 
and that sort of rubbish! That kind of love is nearly all 
hate if you ask me!” 

“Cleeve, I’m sorry.” Muriel looked at him repentantly. 
“I didn’t know you were tired, we won’t argue any more. 
Come closer and put your head on my shoulder and we’ll 
talk about nice things for a while.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


* 6 T ’M afraid, Mr. Barrington, we won’t be able to shoot 

* to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“I thought you said we were to beat the cow lezzer 
copse to-morrow? I was looking forward to it,” said Cleeve 
in a regretful tone. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Barrington,” the 
keeper replied, “but Mr. Wharton is shooting to-day in 
the fields the other side, so it wouldn’t do to go there to¬ 
morrow. It’s the best cover we’ve got, and I don’t want 
it to disappoint you when we do shoot it. I’d also for¬ 
gotten it’s market day to-morrow, and it would be difficult 
to get our reg’lar beaters. We couldn’t ’ave John Molyneux 
anyway, and ’e’s the only man who knows this shooting 
well enough to manage the beating.” 

Cleeve laughed. “My double, I suppose you mean!” 

Walker lowered his eyes and his face flushed a little. 
He was wondering whether Mr. Barrington could by any 
chance have overheard the conversation he had had the 
previous night with Tom Morris, the under-keeper. 

Walker and Morris, at the time, were walking back 
together after the day’s sport was over, and had commented 
on the rather striking resemblance between the two in 
front of them, Cleeve Barrington and John Molyneux. In 
the course of their conversation Walker had said rather 
emphatically—for in spite of his calling he had socialistic 
inclinations—“It proves my theory, Tom, that there’s 
nothing in breeding; Jack’s as good as his master if you 
only h’educate ’im and give ’im brass.” Walker’s manner 
of speaking differed. To his superiors he was very careful 
to avoid ultra colloquialisms, to his equals and those beneath 
him he spoke without restraint, but at all times he exhibited 
an occasional unsteadiness on his aitches. Now in the 
light of Cleeve’s remarks Walker pondered. Was that 

129 


130 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


remark, “My double, I suppose you mean,” a dig at him, 
because he’d not made sufficient allowances for Barrington’s 
quick ear? Or did it spring from a spontaneous thought, 
the outcome of a recognition of what was perfectly obvious? 
It was Cleeve who supplied the answer to these mental 
questions. 

“He’s changed his name lately, even though he hasn’t 
the brass, eh, Walker?” 

The keeper’s face flushed a deeper pink. “W—what do 
you mean, Mr. Barrington?” he stammered in an endeavour 
to gain time to compose himself,—for it was no part of 
Walker’s socialistic creed to offend those who had “brass.” 

“I thought you called him John Barrington nowadays,” 
said Cleeve mercilessly. 

Walker moistened his lips and glanced at Barrington 
as he replied self-deprecatingly: “We didn’t mean no 
offence, Mr. Barrington, but ’e’s so like you we do call 
him John Barrington at times.” 

Cleeve, with an amused chuckle, turned the conversation. 

“So we can’t shoot to-morrow. Well, I suppose we’ll 
have to take a day off and I might have a look round 
this quaint old town. I’d rather like to see what it looks 
like on market day.” 

Walker responded eagerly and, anxious to keep the 
conversation going in a safe direction, expatiated at great 
length on the attractions of Becclesfield on market day. 

“They’re mostly small farmers about ’ere and they come 
in scores to sell their pigs and cattle, and the farmers’ wives 
their heggs, fowls and ducks. You’ve never seen so many 
people in a small town in your life; you’d wonder where 
they hall come from. And men like John Molyneux earn 
a tidy sum acting as ’erd drivers or as porters, collecting 
parcels from the shops and putting ’em in the owners’# 
traps, which are packed so closely together in the bait 
stables that you can’t get one out without moving a score 
of others.” 

Cleeve’s eyes twinkled as he pictured the scene. “And 
I suppose many a parcel is put into the wrong trap and 
then rows begin?” 

“That’s very rare, Mr. Barrington. You see h’every¬ 
body’s known round ’ere and the make and shape of their 


AT BECCLESFIELD 131 

conveyances. There’s quarrelling of course, but it’s not 
over parcels.” 

“No, I suppose the quarrelling’s over the price of pigs?” 

“No, sir, there’s not over much of that neither. The 
quarrelling comes when the wives try to get their ’usbands 
out of the bar parlours, and they don’t ’arf do it sometimes.” 

Then as Walker called to mind some of the scenes he 
had witnessed he chuckled broadly with the zest of mirth. 

“I suppose they find they can’t sell pigs without pints, 
Walker?” 

“Seemingly not, sir! ’Pears to me they forget they’ve 
got wives, some of ’em, when they’ve pigs and cows to 
sell and beer to drink, and wives, of course, get a bit anxious 
as night comes.” 

“Anxious to get them home before too much money’s 
gone, eh?” 

“Yes, and before they’re too merry to drive straight. 
It makes me laugh sometimes to see the way these farmers 
drive to market and the way they drive ’ome.” 

“I suppose there’s a good deal of difference?” 

“I should say there is, Mr. Barrington,” replied Walker 
emphatically. “They drive in dressed up in their best 
clothes as though they were going to church, with their 
’eads in the air and looking as hindependent as only farmers 
can. You see, being a Londoner I suppose I notice these 
things,” he explained. “Their wives sitting aside of ’em, 
looking as important as ’ens with chicks! But when they 
drive ’ome at night! ... It’s a treat sometimes to watch 
’em. Reins dangling on their ’orses’ backs, ’ands carelessly 
dropped between their knees, ’eads almost rolling on their 
chests, ’umming snatches of songs and ’ymns, and their 
wives waiting a chance to take the reins.” 

“And I suppose they’ve all got their favourite ditty, 
eh?” 

“Some of ’em ’ave, Mr. Barrington,” Walker assented. 
“But it’s mostly ’ymns they sing, and ‘Through all the 
changing scenes of life’ seems to be a partic’lar favourite.” 

Cleeve roared. The description was not new to him; 
it was the description of every market town on market day, 
even his own. But having grown up amid those scenes 
he had never seen anything extraordinary in them, and he 


132 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


wondered why Walker was so amused and interested until 
he recollected that the keeper had been born and bred in 
London. 

“You don’t know Becclesfield,” said Walker, interrupting 
Cleeve’s thoughts. “Do you, Mr. Barrington?” 

“No, I’ve never been here before.” 

“It’s a fine old place,” said Walker enthusiastically. 

‘ ‘ The church is well worth seeing, and in the: market 
place there’s still the old stocks. Then there’s the ’ouses 
of the preacher and reader, hever so old! ... I tell you 
what, Mr. Barrington, if you’ve nothing else to do to¬ 
morrow, why not let me show you the place? ... I’d 
like to very much.” 

Cleeve had made that previous remark about wishing 
to look round the quaint old town, with no really fixed 
purpose or inclination. 

Walker had been so obviously embarrassed at the refer¬ 
ence to Molyneux that Cleeve had welcomed the change in 
the conversation as much as Walker had welcomed it, and 
his expressed desire was little more than a subterfuge. But 
the one thing he wished to avoid was a day alone with 
Muriel, and, in the absence of some definite programme, he 
felt convinced that Mrs. Ryder would contrive to throw 
them together. 

He had slept very little during the night. His feelings 
for Muriel, or rather the absence of them, had given his 
thoughts too much food for sleep; and the thought of a 
whole day with her after a night of indecision appalled 
him. It was during the nights he wavered; it was then 
that Yvonne’s love seemed to become a reality, seemed to 
creep so closely to him that its strong compelling whispers 
could not be denied. It was at night his own love for her 
was recreated, and with his senses dulled, as a result of 
the fatigue of the day, the romance of his desires rendered 
impotent those finer instincts in which honour beds its 
roots. But his senses were not so doped as to rob him of 
the pricks of conscience. Muriel’s love was a greater and 
more tangible reality. It, too, pleaded and whispered; 
and it pleaded with such force that the source of the reality 
of that other love was concealed. Under its influence he 
imagined his belief in the existence of Yvonne’s love sprang 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


133 


partly from his own wishes and desires and partly from 
reflex thoughts stimulated by the revulsion which Muriel’s 
demand for a demonstrative affection, the equal of her 
own, produced. But the one thing which emerged, clear 
and definite, from the chaos of these nocturnal reflections 
was the knowledge that he did not love Muriel Ryder. 
And in the light of that knowledge he felt a whole day with 
her would deprive him of the strength of mind necessary to 
steel his purpose. 

It was therefore with no small degree of relief that he 
finally made up his mind to accept Walker’s offer, consoling 
himself for this dereliction of duty to Muriel with the 
thought that it wlould give him time to reset his course. 
He would go for a long walk in the morning and meet 
Walker in the afternoon. He would have no more of 
those nightly struggles with love and duty. It was not 
fair to Muriel. 

The daytime was the time to decide and a long healthy 
walk would restore his brain, for his head was more to be 
trusted than his heart. It was that silly heart of his 
which kept pleading for one who was not deserving of any 
man’s consideration. That silly heart of his which gained 
the ascendancy at night and bade him hope and love. 
But in the daytime his brain awoke and then he remem¬ 
bered that there were other things to be considered and 
that honour and duty too had their claims. It might be 
true that he had been rather more than hasty over this 
engagement—but it was all his own doing and his day¬ 
time thoughts were prompting him to make up his mind 
to see it through. 


CHAPTER XXII 


r PHE next afternoon the clock in the belfry was chim- 
* ing three as Cleeve Barrington entered the western gate 
of the churchyard accompanied by Walker. He wore an old 
shooting jacket and a tweed cap. His boots, leggings and 
breeches were mud splashed, for he had been a long cross¬ 
country walk and, not knowing the country, had landed 
himself on one or two occasions in soft patches which would 
have turned a less agile or determined man. But Cleeve 
was out to settle his plans, and the thought of making a 
detour never entered his head. He had just walked straight 
on as his fancy drove him, jumping when necessary, and, 
where the ground was too soft, skipping lightly from tuft to 
tuft till he had negotiated those quaggy obstacles. He 
had consequently spent much energy during that walk; 
and as the earlier part of the afternoon had been sultry and 
oppressive he was both tired and hot, as his face and neck 
bore witness. 

“It’s getting chilly, Mr. Barrington, and looks like frost; 
you’ll be catching cold after a walk like you’ve ’ad.” 

“I don’t think I shall, Walker. Colds don’t trouble me 
much. ’ ’ 

“Maybe not, but you’re not used to these parts and it’s 
never safe to go without a muffler at this time of the year. 
I’d turn me collar up if I was you; you’ll find the church 
pretty cold.” 

Cleeve did find it cold, but soon forgot his sense of dis¬ 
comfort in the interest the place evoked. There are few 
older churches than that of Becclesfield; part of it was built 
in the Norman times, the belfry holds one of the finest peals 
in the east of England, and the stained glass windows in 
the chancel are of priceless fifteenth century glass. But 
what perhaps interested Cleeve as much as anything were 
the quaint epitaphs on some of the old tablets. One in 

134 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


135 


particular was too enigmatical for any mortal to solve. The 
tablet announced that it had been erected to the memory 
of a departed gentleman on whom had fallen the duty not 
only of taxing the local inhabitants for the upkeep of the 
draining of the surrounding country, but disbursing the 
proceeds; and after a brief recital of his name, age and 
titles it went on to state “that the kind of man he was 
would never be disclosed until the Judgment Day.” 
Cleeve found himself, as the twain retraced their steps, 
trying to make a short cut to the Judgment Day decision. 

Leaving the church they went through the houses of the 
reader and the preacher, and Cleeve elicited the fact that 
the appointments still held. They were relics of the old 
days when Becclesfield was an important religious centre 
with a rector, preacher and reader appointed by the Crown. 
The duties of the reader and the preacher had in process of 
time undergone a change. They no longer simply read and 
preached, but acted as curates in the widest possible sense, 
though their appointments were permanent and their duties, 
in many respects, independent of the rector. 

Other relics of bygone prosperity were visited and then 
in the course of time they sought the market square, but 
not before they had taken a peep at the various bait stables, 
and even Cleeve Barrington, used as he was to market days 
in his own provincial town, was surprised at the number of 
conveyances parked in the comparatively small spaces 
which the stable yards possessed. Sauntering along, 
Cleeve looking to right and left, anxious not to miss any¬ 
thing of interest, they came to a narrow alley-way down 
which they walked and finally found themselves in the 
market square. It was now getting late in the afternoon 
and a fair amount of horseplay was apparently being in¬ 
dulged in. Suddenly Barrington’s thoughts were inter¬ 
rupted by a laugh from his companion accompanied by an 
excited ejaculation. 

“They’ve managed it at last!” he cried, and Cleeve, 
looking in the direction in which Walker’s finger was point¬ 
ing, saw a surging crowd in the centre of the square. “We 
mustn’t miss this,” added Walker, hurrying forward, and 
Cleeve followed. 

In the small space in the centre of that crowd were the 
stocks, which were at that particular moment occupied by 


136 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


a little fat man, wearing a complacent smile on his full, 
ruddy face, sitting unconcernedly on a cold stone with his 
legs and arms firmly imprisoned by the heavy beams. On 
one side stood an attendant fanning him with a cabbage 
leaf, on the other side was another attendant holding a 
glass and a large jug of foaming ale. In front of the 
prisoner stood a pseudo-town crier, bell in one hand and an 
important looking document in the other. Three times the 
crier rang the bell and after each peal he shouted “Oyez! 
Oyez! Oyez!” Then holding up the document he com¬ 
menced to read in a stentorian voice: 

“Farmer Onions: You have been tried by a jury of your 
compeers at the bar of the ‘Rose and Crown’ for the most 
heinous crime in Christendom, to wit, that you have with 
malice aforethought made a practice of standing drinks at 
the said bar, and have steadfastly refused to allow anyone 
to stand you a drink in return. Beer have you refused, whis¬ 
key have you spurned, gin you wot not of, unless the same 
has been purchased with your own filthy lucre, of which you 
have admitted you possess an abundant store. To possess an 
abundance of anything which is filthy is the serious offence 
to which you have pleaded ‘not guilty.’ The members and 
benchers of the bar of the ‘Rose and Crown’ know noth¬ 
ing of the meaning of such a plea, and—after hearing the 
little you had to say in self-defence, the much abuse which, 
unfortunately, you gratuitously handed round with the 
same freedom as you hand round drinks—they, the afore¬ 
said members and benchers, have decreed that you be 
placed in the stocks and kept there until you have swal¬ 
lowed one quart of October ale subscribed for by 
those who have been the victims of your unchristian-like 
generosity. . . .” 

What the town crier had further to recite and what 
eventually happened to the ale Cleeve never discovered, 
for a light tap on his shoulder arrested him. 

“I’ve been waiting for you for some time,” he heard a 
feminine voice say. “But of course you forget all about 
that when there’s any beer drinking going on, don’t you?” 

He thought his ears were deceiving him, but turning sud¬ 
denly his eyes corroborated the testimony of their col- 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


137 


leagues. He saw the retreating figure of Yvonne wending 
her way out of the crowd. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” ... Was he dreaming? 
He turned the sentence over in his mind. He had not heard 
a word either from or about her since she had stepped out 
of that train. “Been waiting for me? How did she get 
here or know I was in Becclesfield?” These thoughts 
flashed through his mind and, to add to the confusion of 
his intellect, the beer reference intruded and introduced 
further puzzles. He was not aware that there was to be 
any beer drinking until he was right on the top of it. 
“Waiting for me! Who on earth made the appointment?” 

These thoughts took but a fraction of a second to flash 
on the screen of his mind when suddenly the flashing ceased 
and his attention was diverted by a hearty, good-natured 
laugh from Walker. 

“Well, you can excuse us now, Mr. Barrington, can’t 
you?” 

Cleeve became more baffled. Was there some mystery 
about her presence in which Walker was playing an allotted 
part? 

“For what?” he demanded shortly. There was a 
puzzled, almost angry frown on his face. His first inclina¬ 
tion had been to follow Yvonne, but the element of mystery 
bade him tarry a moment or two. 

“Well, if Mrs. du Bahry can mistake you for John Moly- 
neux, you will forgive us for calling him your double?” 

“I don’t understand you,” said Cleeve thoughtfully. He 
had made up his mind to follow Yvonne, and out of the 
corner of his eyes he saw her walking steadily on without 
so much as casting a backward glance to see if he were 
coming. She had now almost reached the end of the square 
and, fearful that he might lose sight of her, and without 
waiting for Walker to give an explanation, he strode 
quickly forward in her wake. He had passed halfway 
through the square when Walker overtook him. 

“Don’t you trouble, Mr. Barrington, I’ll go and find ’im; 
you won’t know where to look. I expect ’e’ll be at the 
‘Rose and Crown.’ ” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Walker,” said 


138 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Cleeve impatiently. And then anxious to rid himself of 
Walker’s company he added: “I know Mrs. du Barry and 
I’d forgotten my appointment with her.” 

It was now Walker’s turn to be puzzled. Could he have 
made a mistake? He reflected a few moments and came 
to the conclusion that a lady, especially one so young and 
winsome, would hardly push her way into the centre of a 
crowd, tap her friend on the back and inform him that beer 
was a greater attraction than herself. It was much more 
likely, he thought, that she had mistaken Mr. Barrington 
for John Molyneux, especially as it was getting dusk and 
the crush round the stocks made recognition difficult. He 
had better explain matters quickly, he decided. 

“I think there’s some mistake ’ere, Mr. Barrington. You 
see, Mrs. du Barry employes John Molyneux every market 
day to carry ’er parcels ’ome and ’e usually meets ’er about 
this time. Still, if you’ve an appointment with Mrs. du 
Barry, it’s all right, but I think I’ll go to the ‘Rose and 
Crown’ and see if Molyneux is there, for it looks to me as 
though a fog’s coming on and if ’e keeps Mrs. du Barry 
waiting much longer she’ll ’ave to go all the way by road. 
The footpath through the fields will be too ’ard to find and 
none too safe in a fog.” 

“How long is the road?” asked Cleeve in a conciliating 
manner, suddenly jumping to the conclusion that Walker’s 
explanation was the correct one and somewhat regretting 
his previous abruptness. 

“It’s about four miles, a stiffish walk really when you’re 
laden with parcels.” 

Cleeve gave a sigh of relief; he hated himself inwardly 
for the weakness which produced his feeling of satisfaction 
at the prospect of a walk with Yvonne, but more inwardly 
he lamented that the walk was not fourteen miles instead 
of four!; for Cleeve Barrington, succumbing to that weak¬ 
ness, had already made up his mind to have that walk with 
Yvonne at all costs, and the only thing which puzzled him 
at the moment was how to accomplish it? Yvonne had 
disappeared! “There’s nothing for it,” he told himself, 
“but to accompany Walker to the ‘Rose and Crown.’ ” 

“Couldn’t we get a trap for Mrs. du Barry? It would 
save her that long walk.” 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


139 


In putting the question Cleeve was less interested in 
saving “that long walk” than in the prospect of sitting 
beside Yvonne and getting rid of Molyneux, but even while 
he spoke those words a faint whisper caught his ear: 
“What about Muriel, Cleeve?” He only just heard the 
whisper which really conveyed nothing at the time, for the 
small winged figure of a blindfolded cherub fluttered mo¬ 
mentarily in his mental vision and, without giving Cleeve 
further time for thought, put its fingers in his ears. 

Walker coughed discreetly. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Bar¬ 
rington, not at this late hour, and you wouldn’t get anyone 
to turn out in a real Norfolk fog, and this looks like being 
one. Besides, it would waste a deal of time, but apart from 
keeping Mrs. du Barry waiting I’m afraid Mr. du Barry’d 
be none too pleased.” 

‘ ‘ Mr. du Barry wouldn’t be pleased ? ’ ’ 

“No, he doesn’t like any strangers to approach anywhere 
near the grounds of Mill ’ouse if ’e can ’elp it. The gates 
are always locked, and even Molyneux ’imself ’asn’t never 
set ’is foot inside.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Well, there’s all sorts of rumours. Some say it’s be¬ 
cause ’e’s got a young wife and is jealous of her. Anyway 
the fact is Mrs. du Barry’s pretty closely looked after and 
she’s never seen except on Thursdays when she does ’er 
shopping. Others say she isn’t ’is wife at all, but she’s 
married a lunatic who’s locked up in Mill ’ouse. Anyway 
it’s all rumours, nobody knows for certain and nobody’s 
ever got anything out of the servants for all their trying; 
they’re all foreigners of some sort I believe. . . . But per¬ 
haps, seeing you know ’er, you’ll be laughing at what I’m 
telling you?” 

Cleeve felt curious. He was sorry he told Walker he 
knew Yvonne, it made it impossible for him to ask too many 
questions or show any natural curiosity with regard to the 
family, so he remained silent, and in silence they reached 
the “Rose and Crown.” 

Pushing their way through the crowd in the bar, they 
entered the parlour at the back. Here, dimly through the 
smoke-laden atmosphere, they beheld John Molyneux stand¬ 
ing precariously on unsteady legs and holding a quart 


140 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


pewter of beer, while he sang in a boisterous voice a ditty 
which thoroughly expressed his condition at the moment. 
Cleeve looked at Walker and without exchanging words 
each sensed the other’s thoughts—“that John Molyneux 
would carry no parcels that night.” 

With a slight shrug of his shoulders Barrington turned 
and, retracing his steps, waited outside for Walker to re¬ 
appear. Later when the keeper emerged Cleeve saw that 
he wore a worried look. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I can’t get any¬ 
one to take Molyneux’s place at this late hour, and Mrs. 
du Barry will be upset. There’s nothing for it as far as I 
can see but to go meself. I can’t let a lady be stranded 
on a night like this.” 

Cleeve brightened considerably. Walker’s remarks had 
put an idea into his head. 

“No, Walker,” he answered in a lazy voice which belied 
the racing of his heartbeats. “You forget I’ve an appoint¬ 
ment with Mrs. du Barry. I can easily manage the parcels; 
you go home.” 

“You’d better let me come with you, Mr. Barrington,” 
Walker entreated. “You’d never find the road yourself, 
and Mrs. du Barry will ’ave so many parcels you’ll never 
be able to carry ’em. ... You see, Molyneux carries ’em 
in a sack.” 

“I can buy a sack,” was Cleeve’s assurance, given in a 
voice which plainly expressed his determination to have 
his way. “If you’ll tell me where to find Mrs. du Barry 
I’ll manage all right.” 

“She’ll be at the George Hotel, Mr. Barrington, but . . .” 

“Thanks! Good-night, Walker,” said Cleeve and, turn¬ 
ing away, he broke into a brisk walk and was soon lost to 
the astonished Walker ’s gaze. For a while the latter stood 
with a puzzled look on his face as he sought to find a motive 
for Barrington’s evident desire for a tete-a-tete walk with 
Mrs. du Barry; he didn’t believe that story of an appoint¬ 
ment. 

Approaching the George Hotel, Cleeve espied through 
the thick gloom of the fog the lights of a general stores 
shop on the opposite side of the road and, remembering 
that he would need a sack, he crossed over and purchased 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


141 


one. Emerging a little later into the street again he hur¬ 
riedly recrossed the road, making straight for the George, 
the light over the main entrance of which was now only 
dimly visible. His pace slackened as he drew near and 
then suddenly the figure of a woman, walking agitatedly 
up and down the pavement in front of the hotel, loomed 
through the fog. He felt his heart beating quickly, he 
would have known it was Yvonne had the fog been twice as 
thick. She came to a sudden halt as he stopped a few yards 
from her. 

“Molyneux, you’ve been drinking again.” She made the 
statement in a stern, though anxious voice. “I wonder 
you’re not ashamed to come to me at this hour! How do 
you think I’m going to get home in this fog? It really is 
too bad.” 

The words put an idea into Cleeve’s head. It would be 
rather fun, he thought, to pretend he was John Molyneux 
and see what happened. He dropped his head in a shame¬ 
faced manner, as he thought the guilty Molyneux would 
have done, and with a slight hesitation in his steps drew a 
little nearer. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


U) A VEN’T ’ad much,” said Cleeve, imitating the thick 
** speech to which he had heard John Molyneux giv¬ 
ing vent. 

“Then I’d like to know what you’ve been doing until 
this hour.” 

“ ’Tisn’t very late, an’ I cum as soon as you called me.” 

“Oh, it’s not very late, Molyneux? And if you haven’t 
had much to drink I’d like to know why you can’t speak 
properly. I can’t let you carry my parcels unless you sober 
up pretty quickly.” 

Cleeve reflected a moment. Perhaps he had been a little 
too thick in his speech; he’d have to gradually tone it down 
a bit. 

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I’ave ’ad a pint afore coming, 
and what with the cold and the fog it ’as rather gone to 
me ’ead. I’ll be a’right afore long.” 

“Well, you’d better make up for lost time and get my 
parcels.” 

Cleeve was perplexed. “I wonder where the blessed 
parcels are?” he thought. “What a fool I was not to ask 
Walker; I’ll be bowled out if I’m not careful before we get 
fairly started.” Then a brilliant idea struck him. He 
would put his forgetfulness down to that pint. Pushing 
his hand under his cap he scratched his head as he thought 
Molyneux would have done, and muttered as if to himself: 
“That pint must ’ave gone to me ’ead! I’ve clean forgot 
for the moment where the blooming parcels are.” 

Yvonne gave an exclamation of astonishment. She had 
never heard Molyneux talk about “blooming parcels” be¬ 
fore. She glanced anxiously up and down the street and 
noticed with dismay that the fog was getting thicker; she 
felt nervous as to Molyneux’s state. She had seen him 
a little the worse for drink before, but not quite so far gone 

142 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


143 


as to forget everything. However, it was too late to get 
another porter, in fact she would not know where to find 
one at that late hour, and she dared not trust Molyneux to 
get one. If he could forget where her parcels were he’d 
forget to send a substitute as soon as he was out of her 
sight. 

“It’s too bad of you, Molyneux, to turn up in this shame¬ 
ful state! You know what a lonely walk it is, and now 
we’ll have to go all the way by road. You’ll find the par¬ 
cels with the ostler as usual.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Cleeve, touching his cap, and add¬ 
ing as he departed in the direction of the stables: “I’ll 
be a’right presently, ma’am. I’ve only ’ad one pint.” 

As soon as Cleeve turned the corner and was out of sight 
he gave a low laugh. “Good Lord, what a game! A four 
mile walk in this fog with Yvonne’s tophole, but a four mile 
walk back is going to be no joke; though it’s getting colder 
now and it’s just possible the fog may lift.” 

The stable yard was almost empty, and he had no diffi¬ 
culty in finding the ostler. 

“I want Mrs. du Barry’s parcels.” 

The ostler, without a word, turned on his heel and en¬ 
tered the harness-room, which was dimly lit by a single 
gas jet. “You’ll find ’em in the corner,” he replied as 
he took up a shovel and proceeded to put some more coal 
on the fire. 

Cleeve looked round the room hesitatingly; there were 
still several heaps of parcels lying on the floor, but none 
exactly in any corner. He bent to examine the names and 
then, realising that if any of the parcels were overlooked it 
might inconvenience Yvonne, he said: “You’d better help 
me to put them in this sack and then there’ll be no mis¬ 
take.” 

The ostler turned round suddenly and, putting down the 
shovel gave Cleeve a searching look. 

“I beg pardon, sir. I thought it was John Molyneux; 
I didn’t know it was you. I think, sir, you be the gentle¬ 
man who ’as taken Lady Mainwaring’s shooting?” 

“I am,” said Cleeve briefly. 

The ostler was perplexed. He couldn’t think why this 
gentleman with a sack had taken Molyneux’s place, and he 


144 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


hesitated for a moment. Then reflecting that it was no 
business of his, and consoling himself with the thought that 
at any rate there could be no harm in giving Mrs. du 
Barry’s parcels to a gentleman, he helped to place them in 
the sack, lifted it on to Cleeve’s shoulder, pocketed the tip 
and said good-night. 

Cleeve, with the sack of parcels slung over his shoulder, 
retraced his steps, but when he turned into the street 
Yvonne had disappeared. 

“Now I’ve overdone it,” he murmured to himself. 
“She’s gone off without me, I’ve overacted that little thick¬ 
ness of speech and frightened her.” 

He walked to the front entrance of the hotel, and then 
the sound of light footfalls behind him caught his ear. 

“You’ve been a long time, Molyneux. I thought you 
were never coming.” 

“I ’ad a difficulty in getting them parcels, ma’am,” and 
then, anxious to disabuse her mind of any thought that 
John Molyneux might have had another pint at the bar 
before shouldering his load, he added: “I ’aven’t touched 
another drop, ma’am, and I’m a’right now.” 

Yvonne gave a little laugh. “I wasn’t thinking of that, 
Molyneux; I was thinking that I haven’t got many parcels 
to-day. ’ ’ 

Cleeve considered there were quite enough, but anxious 
to convince Yvonne of his bona fides, he thought it better 
to agree with her, and replied that the load was much 
lighter than usual in a voice less thick than before. 

“I think you’re getting quite yourself, John.” Yvonne 
accompanied the remark with a merry care-free laugh. 

Cleeve started slightly as she pronounced the name. So 
he was to be John for the rest of the journey. It sounded 
a nice name when it came from her lips; why was his name 
not John? 

“Oh, I’m a’right now, ma’am,” and conscious that his 
proximity to Yvonne was rather dangerous, he suggested 
that they should move off. 

“I know what I’ve forgotten now,” Yvonne exclaimed. 
“The potatoes! We’ll get them at a shop a little further 
on. Come along, John.” 

“Now I’m done for,” thought “John” lugubriously. 


AT BBCCLESFIELD 


145 


“I’ll have to go into the shop with her, and then the game 
will be up.” 

But to his relief Yvonne stopped suddenly. ‘‘You’d 
better go in and buy them, and I’ll wait for you here,” 
and slipping a few shillings into his hand, she added: ‘ ‘ Get 
twenty-eight pounds, they’ll lend you another sack; and 
catch me up, I’ll walk along slowly.” 

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Cleeve to himself as he entered 
the shop. “All these parcels, and twenty-eight pounds of 
spuds. Cleeve, my boy, you’re going to pay for this walk 
of yours!” 

The shop being otherwise empty he was soon served and, 
walking off in the direction he had noticed Yvonne taking, 
he quickly caught her up. 

“I think we’ll have to go round by the road, John, you 
won’t mind, will you? The bag’s lighter than usual, for 
now I come to think of it I’ve forgotten the onions. . . . 
You find it lighter, don’t you, John?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” said Cleeve, eager to agree with her 
and not give himself away, but to himself he added: “Now 
I suppose there’ll be fourteen pounds of onions added to 
the load. My word, Molyneux surely earns his money! ’ ’ 

“Well, it’s too late to go back now; we’ll just have to 
manage without the onions this time.” 

Cleeve, following Yvonne, kept at a discreet distance 
until they were out of the town, for the fog was lifting, and 
it was not until they had left behind the last street lamp 
that he felt secure from detection. Suddenly Yvonne’s 
voice, soft and sympathetic, broke the silence: 

“How’s Betty, John? I remember you told me last week 
that she’s not been well lately.” 

The sympathy in her voice scattered his wits for the mo¬ 
ment ; she could be so charmingly sweet at times, he 
thought. Then, realising that she was waiting for his 
answer, he reflected rapidly on who “Betty” might be. 
He tried to remember if he had heard that John Molyneux 
was married and had a faint recollection that Walker had 
said something about it. “At any rate,” he decided, 
“Betty can’t be a man, and the chances are she is his wife.” 
Having come to this safe conclusion, he answered her in a 
cheerful confident voice: 


146 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“She’s a mighty sight better, thank you, ma’am,” and 
then with the idea of getting a little of his own back, he 
added: “Well enough, at any rate, to indulge in the 
common vice of ’er sex.” 

“Indeed! You surprise me, John. What is that vice?” 

“Well,” drawled Cleeve, “she’s been ’tending the bargain 
sales and ’as brought back enough ’ats to last her the rest 
of ’er life, if you axe me hanything. ’ ’ 

He finished the sentence triumphantly and decided with 
satisfaction that he had “got one in there.” The next 
moment, however, he was not so sure. 

“Oh! hats enough to last a life time? I wonder where 
she gets all her money from? Hats aren’t cheap, you 
know! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Putting my foot in it, I think, ’ ’ Cleeve thought ruefully. 
“Perhaps new hats are a bit of a luxury to working men’s 
wives. Must go a bit cautiously. ...” 

“Well, she’s rather got that craze now, more fond of 
’ats than anythink else, ma’am. They’re cheaper than 
clothes, anyway. Can’t keep her off ’ats these days!” 
He almost shouted the last few words as Yvonne had some¬ 
how managed to rush ahead. 

“Can’t corner me,” he chuckled to himself, well satisfied 
at the way he had wriggled out of what he considered 
an extremely embarrassing piece of conversation. “I’ll 
celebrate this little success of mine by dropping a few spuds, 
it’ll lighten the load!” And opening the mouth of the 
potato sack he allowed a dozen or more to drop on the 
road. He lengthened his stride and caught up Yvonne. 

“I think you’ve made a mistake, John,” she said gently. 
“I thought you told me it was little Betty who hadn’t been 
well ? ’ ’ 

Cleeve was hardly prepared to hear there were two 
Bettys, and this reopening of a conversation which he had 
thought was finished with made him reflect deeply. “I 
wish I had extracted a little more information about 
Molyneux’s family when I was talking to him the other day. 
However, I’m beginning to get the hang of things. I can 
see now that Betty is my wife, otherwise there could not 
be a little Betty.” He smothered a laugh as he thought 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


147 


of his parental responsibilities, and added aloud: “OhI 
Betsy , you mean?” 

Yvonne gave an exclamation. “You’ve changed her 
name, have you?” 

“Well, you see, ma’am, it got very confusing with the 
two of them being called the same and my old woman put 
’er foot down, so to speak.” 

“Your old woman! And pray, who d’you call your old 
woman, John?” 

“Doesn’t like the title!” Cleeve thought. “I suppose 
she’d like me to be respectful to women and call her Mrs. 
Molyneux. Well, I just won’t! It’ll do her no harm to 
hear her own sex run down once in a way. . . . This is 
w’here I come in!” 

* ‘ That’s what we call our wives in these parts once we’ve 
married ’em. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I see,” said Yvonne, “you’re not very complimen¬ 
tary then?” 

“No-a,” Cleeve drawled, “not nowadays. They get 
huppish like if you’re too respectful.” And then, thinking 
that he might as well get another shot in, he added: “You 
see, ma’am, your own partic’lar wife’s like an angel till 
you’ve married ’er, and then you find out she’s only dross, 
same as the rest!” 

There was silence for a few moments and Cleeve, mentally 
patting himself on the back and thoroughly satisfied with 
that dig and the progress he was making in putting together 
vernacular sentences, murmured to himself: “That’s the 
stuff to give her, Cleeve!” 

“Well, we’ll not talk about wives any more,” said 
Yvonne in a rather subdued voice. 

“Not if you’re not arter ’earing a few ’ome truths, 
ma’am.” 

“I know, John, when the beer’s in the truth’s out, eh?” 
It was Yvonne’s turn to give a little chuckle. 

“That’s about it, ma’am,” Cleeve responded cheerfully, 
and to himself he added: “I’ll just celebrate this second 
victory by dropping spuds,” and so several more potatoes 
tumbled out on the road, while he reflected that after his 
way of talking about women he had quite turned the con¬ 
versation from those complicating Bettys. 


148 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


There was another long pause, and then suddenly Yvonne 
asked another question. 

“Let me see, John, how old is Betty now? ... Or rather, 
Betsy , I should say.” 

“Good Lord, on to this Betty game again!” thought 
Cleeve desperately. “What on earth can I say? I suppose 
I’d better temporise. ...” 

“I don’t quite remember, ma’am. I’m still a bit fuddled 
from that there pint.” 

“Surely she must be getting quite big now?” 

Cleeve considered for a moment. “ ‘Getting quite big 
now,’ that gives me some idea. Betsy must be either 
getting big enough to go to school or else getting big enough 
to leave; that’s all they think about in working-class 
families. Let me see, Molyneux must be about twenty-six 
or seven, so it isn’t likely that Betsy could be leaving school, 
more likely she’s about old enough to go. I think I’d 
better decide on that line, for it won’t do to be too ignorant 
or too reticent about this Betsy.” 

Yvonne broke in upon his thoughts. “I suppose she’ll 
be going soon?” 

“Thank the Lord,” said Cleeve to himself, “that’s an¬ 
other help, for I don’t intend to be beaten over this 
Betty business!” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am, she will,” he replied in an important 
voice. “She’s going to school next month.” 

“To school! . . . What school, John?” 

“Why, the board school, ma’am. Where else can the 
likes of us send ’er?” Cleeve demanded in an injured voice. 

A muffled laugh reached his ears and a suspicion that he 
had said something wrong made him swing the sack of 
potatoes round irritably, whereupon quite a number of 
potatoes made a trail along the road. He looked at the 
sack dubiously. “The remainder are hardly worth keep¬ 
ing,” he thought, and on a sudden impulse he emptied the 
sack and, rolling it up, tucked it under his arm. 

Looking up suddenly he saw that Yvonne had halted, 
and was inserting a key in the lock of a garden gate. Had 
the journey ended? And he had been treated as Moly¬ 
neux all the time! He nearly bit his tongue in his effort 


AT BECCLESFIELD 


149 


to stem the words that rushed to his lips. What a fool 
he had been not to notice how the time was passing, for it 
was too late now to disclose the trick he had played upon 
her. She would only leave him full of resentment at his 
duplicity and give him no opportunity to explain. Then 
a gleam of hope penetrated his thoughts; what a brain 
wave it had been to drop those potatoes. He would excuse 
the loss by pleading a hole in the sack and promise to bring 
some more to-morrow, and then he would force his way 
somehow into the grounds, insist on seeing her and tell 
her how it all had happened. 

Yvonne, having opened the gate, turned and taking the 
parcels from him put them down on the other side. Then 
she looked at him with a tantalising little smile, a smile 
that somehow made him nervous. 

‘‘Well, John, we’ve had a nice walk and quite an inter¬ 
esting conversation, haven’t we?” . . . Then as he made 
no reply she continued: “But I really can’t believe you 
only had one pint, John. It’s the first time you’ve talked 
such nonsense about your cow and her calf!” She looked 
at him to see the effect of her words, and as she took 
in his dismay and astonishment she added: “By the 
way, John, I didn’t know you were married, you must 
bring your wife to see me next Thursday!” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I think my mind must ’ave been 
wandering, not quite meself yet you see, for I find all 
your potatoes ’ave dropped out. Must be a ’ole in the 
sack. I’d best bring another sack along to-morrow, eh, 
ma’am?” 

Yvonne slipped inside the gate and locked it before 
replying. She seemed to be considering his question, and 
Cleeve waited patiently and hopefully. The next moment 
he could hardly believe his ears. 

“Well, good-night, Mr. Barrington,” she said sweetly, 
“I must thank you for a most entertaining evening.” 

“Then you knew me all the time?” stammered Cleeve. 

She looked at him smilingly without speaking. 

Cleeve reflected savagely on the way he had been fooled 
into making idiotic conversation, and full of resentment 


150 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


he prepared to leave, but a sudden recollection made him 
turn and address her once more. 

“Ill have a sack of potatoes sent to you to-morrow, 
Mrs. du Barry/’ he said coldly. 

“You needn’t bother, John,” Yvonne replied demurely. 
“We grow our own.” 


BOOK III 

AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 












CHAPTER XXIV 


Extract from a letter written hy Mr. du Barry to Mrs. del 
Haviland shortly after the events narrated in the preced¬ 
ing chapters. 

UA ND now I must explain why, after promising you so 
faithfully that Yvonne should remain a fortnight, I 
sent that telegram. I am not giving an explanation to avoid 
your upbraiding, for, Eloise, you never upbraid, but I don’t 
want you to think that I would willingly break my word. 

“I sent that telegram at Yvonne’s request, and I gather 
she told you this, but has she told you the circumstances 
which led up to it? I fancy not, for they are such that a 
girl like Yvonne keeps even the recollection of them buried 
in her heart. And beyond the few details which she gave 
me on the afternoon of her return I myself know very little. 

1 ‘This much, however, I do know, and I tell it you in 
the strictest confidence and with great sorrow, that my poor 
girl has given hep love and all that goes with it to Cleeve 
Barrington. Apparently he proposed, and she, true to the 
promise she gave me, refused him. Cleeve Barrington— 
I thought at first out of pique, for we all know his nature, 
at any rate, by repute—then proposed to Muriel Ryder and 
was accepted; whether it was this complication which 
determined Yvonne to leave your house at once I can’t 
say, but in view of her promises to me it must be fairly 
obvious that she could not have remained with you, Eloise, 
for the full time as arranged. 

“I cannot tell you how much I deplore these happenings 
or how bitterly disappointed I am in Cleeve Barrington. 
I could find some excuse for his proposing to Miss Ryder 
if it had been done in that mad reaction which sometimes 
follows a rejected suit; but from your letter telling me of 
his engagement I gather he has, for some time past, been 

153 


154 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


attracted by Muriel Ryder, and even proposed to her 
before Yvonne came on the scene. If so, why did he play 
with my daughter’s feelings? I cannot understand it, 
Eloise, and that my old friend’s son could behave like this 
comes as a tremendous shock to me. I could write much 
more in the same strain without laying myself open to a 
charge of partiality, but my friendship for his father checks 
my pen, and, after all, we can’t alter things, so it’s futile 
to revile. It’s facts I have to face. 

“I am convinced that it is the real thing with Yvonne. 
She sent me a most emphatic telegram to recall her, and 
when she arrived I tell you, Eloise, she was utterly changed. 
I have waited some time before writing this letter, hoping 
that the change was only temporary. It’s not, she is 
just as lovable as ever, but there is a pathetic hopeless 
droop at the corners of her mouth which makes my heart 
bleed. The house seems so quiet and empty too. She 
laughs as frequently as she always did, but there is no ring 
of merriment in the laughter. If you could see her face 
in repose you would not recognise the Yvonne we both 
love so much. 

“But I digress, because, I suppose, I hate to come to 
grips with the real motive which prompts me to write this 
letter. But I must come to it sooner or later. Well, 
Eloise dear, I don’t think Yvonne should visit you again 
until Cleeve Barrington and Muriel Ryder are married. 
If Yvonne can change like this in one short visit, a second 
visit might be disastrous. She has already shown a desire 
to break her promise and I couldn’t risk that, could I? 
You say the engagement is to be a short one as Mrs. 
Barrington is suffering from a serious malady, and both 
the old people are anxious that there should be no unneces¬ 
sary delay. In these circumstances I am sure you will 
agree that it is better for Yvonne not to return to Swanston 
House until that irrevocable step has been taken?” . . . 

Extract from a letter from Mrs . de Haviland to Mr. du Barry 
written about a month later. 

“Now, Gerald, I’m going to answer that letter about 
Yvonne which you wrote me a week or so after her precip- 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


155 


itate return. I have not answered it before, in spite of 
the importunate requests made in your recent letters, be¬ 
cause I have had so much to think about in connection 
with what you wrote. Cleeve Barrington told me he had 
met Yvonne one night when he was shooting in your part 
of the country and accompanied her home, but he spoke 
about it as though it were an ordinary happening, and I 
certainly could not tell from his manner whether he is 
now in any way attracted by her. Then on his return it 
was understood that the wedding would take place before 
Lent, but recently Mrs. Barrington’s malady took a serious 
turn. Whether the wedding will be postponed or not 
I can’t say. Col. Barrington is broken-hearted and wed¬ 
ding festivities in his present state of grief are unthink¬ 
able, I should imagine. Much, of course, will depend on 
Cleeve, but though I can’t understand his attraction for 
the girl it appears to be thoroughly genuine. All this 
naturally alters the suggestion in your letter, for Mrs. 
Barrington may linger on for months, and if, as you say, 
Yvonne seems to take her trouble more seriously as time 
goes on, I think she should come down here again. She 
is such a high-spirited girl that there is every chance of 
her becoming reconciled to the inevitable when she sees 
Cleeve and Muriel together, and I really think that it would 
be better for all of us if she came and stayed a month with 
me. She may find that her love for Cleeve is not so deep- 
seated after all, for the greatest antidote to love is to 
see the object of your affections happy in someone else’s 
presence. So, Gerald dear, as you stated in your last 
letter that you would fall in with my wishes in every 
respect, I shall look forward to seeing Yvonne early in 
January.” . . . 

Mrs. de Haviland read through the letter several times 
before placing it in its envelope. She was not satisfied 
with what she had written, it did not portray her true 
sentiments. To anyone but Gerald du Barry she would 
have laughed at her subtlety, but she could not be subtle 
with him without suffering very great qualms of conscience. 

“After all,” she murmured to herself, “there’s something 
to be said for the saying, 4 the end justifies the means,’ if 
I’m absolutely candid with Gerald I’ll never get Yvonne 


156 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


down here, I don’t believe in this Cleeve-Muriel engage¬ 
ment one bit, and I don’t see why it should wreck Yvonne’s 
happiness. Anyone with eyes can see he’s tired of Muriel 
already, and what’s the use of treating with indifference 
an engagement which in the long run will bring nothing 
but misery to the whole three of them? No! this letter’s 
got to go and what I can’t get out of Gerald ‘with the lion 
I ’ll get out with the fox. ’ ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XXV 


^LEEVE BARRINGTON came down from his dressing- 
^ room in a very dissatisfied frame of mind, so dissatisfied 
that he did a most unusual thing. Instead of visiting his 
mother in her bedroom, as was his custom before dinner, he 
sought the dining-room, although the hands of the clock had 
yet to move another quarter before the gong sounded. Then 
he did a more unusual thing, he walked over to the side¬ 
board, poured out a stiff whiskey and soda, tossed it down 
almost in one gulp, and then putting down the glass he 
took out a letter from his pocket and perused it for about 
the fifth time. 

Dear Mr. Barrington, 

I have some news for you! My niece Yvonne has come 
to stay a few weeks with me, and I should be so pleased if 
you would come over and dine en famille with us to-morrow 
night. 

Yours sincerely, 

Eloise de Haviland. 

P.S.—I heard of your brilliant attempt to carry parcels 
in a sack ! ! ! 

For a few moments he stood staring at the letter and 
then, suddenly crumpling it up into a ball, he threw it on 
the fire and ejaculated: “Damn and blast!” 

He continued to stare into the fire in silent reflection. 

“Looks as if every time Muriel and I seem on the way 
to a better understanding, Mrs. du Barry crosses my path. 
Down at Becclesfield, when I’d just succeeded in putting 
her out of mind and had reconciled myself to the inevitable 
with Muriel, she taps me on the shoulder and scatters all 
my good resolutions to the wind. Now to-day, when I’m 
three parts through my letter to Muriel explaining the 

157 


158 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


necessity for postponing our marriage and telling her that 
it’s only a postponement, comes this like a bolt from the 
blue making every argument I used appear like the plead¬ 
ings of a hypocritical vacillator who never intended to 
marry at all. I’m to be dogged and dragged back to 
mental torments by a married woman who makes no secret 
of her dislike for me. No, it’s no use, Cleeve, my boy, you 
can’t go on with the engagement; this letter is the last 
straw! ’ ’ 

****** 

“What have you settled, Cleeve?” 

The speaker was Col. Barrington, and as he sat facing 
his son he filled his glass from the decanter of port with a 
somewhat shaky hand. 

The fact was Col. Barrington disliked the task before 
him; he hated prying into his son’s private affairs, nothing 
but his wife’s illness would have made him do so, but he 
had to know. He realised how bitter would be Muriel’s 
disappointment at the postponement of the marriage and 
yet even she must see, he argued, that, with Cleeve’s mother 
so seriously ill, marriage at the moment was out of the 
question. Furthermore, Col. Barrington had an additional 
worry, the result of a conversation in his wife’s bedroom. 

“Sam, I don’t think the marriage should take place,” 
Mrs. Barrington had said. 

Col. Barrington was at the time completely taken aback. 

“I don’t understand you, Sarah,” he had said. “The 
wish to see Cleeve married has been as dear to your heart 
as mine, and now you say it shouldn’t take place. I’m 
all in favour of a little postponement, Sarah dear, I think 
we rather rushed the boy, etc., etc.” 

Col. Barrington had turned away his face as he spoke 
those words; he knew his wife would never be strong 
enough, and that the ceremony when it did take place 
would be a motherless one as far as Cleeve was concerned, 
but he could not tell Sarah that; not his Sarah. He 
flattered himself that he had hidden the real cause for the 
postponement and prided himself on the adroit way he 
had introduced his pretended doubts as to the wisdom of 
Cleeve “rushing into marriage.” That argument of his, 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


159 


4 ‘You see, Sarah, it’s only during the engaged period that 
a man really gets to know the girl,” was a remarkably 
subtle masterpiece, and the diplomacy of his next remark, 
“I think in the interests of both that they should have 
a fairly long time to get to know each other,” was, he 
considered, worthy of the best traditions of that most 
scrupulous of all places, Westminster, to which his son 
aspired. And then, when she had agreed, he had given a sigh 
of relief that his wife had not guessed the real motive which 
had created those arguments of his. 

He had not seen his wife’s face while he was speaking, 
had he done so he would have realised that Sarah Barrington 
knew the real reason for the suggested postponement as 
well as he did, for one little tear had rolled down her cheek 
before she could check herself. She had agreed to a 
postponement because a doubt had crept into her mind as 
to the wisdom of the marriage, and not because of any 
love for the convention that it would be unseemly for her 
son to rush into happiness wiith a mother so seriously ill 
that her future lay in another world. 

“Well, Sam,” Mrs. Barrington had replied, “you said 
yourself that a postponement was necessary in order that 
they should get to know each other. . . . Surely that im¬ 
plied a doubt?” 

“A doubt of what, Sarah?” 

“A doubt about the suitability of the engagement.” 

“No, Sarah. That is er . . . er,” Col. Barrington had 
replied. “That is, Sarah, I never had any real doubt, I 
only wanted Cleeve to be equally convinced.” 

“Was there no risk of his being convinced the other 
way?” his wife had suggested gently. 

“Of course not, dear, not with Muriel,” he had reassured 
her. “We’ve always liked the girl, and a more suitable 
marriage I can’t conceive. Mr. Byder is the most popular 
parson in the county and if Cleeve marries Muriel he’ll win 
the election when it comes.” 

“I’ve forgotten about our ambitions, Sam, I can only 
think of his happiness, and I feel sure it will be an unhappy 
marriage.” 

“What on earth makes you say that? When Cleeve 
announced his engagement didn’t you tell me afterwards 


160 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


that you felt sure it was for his future happiness? Oh, 
Sarah, dear, you are still Jack at night and John in the 
morning! Aren’t you now, dear one?” 

“Perhaps I am,” Mrs. Barrington had admitted with 
a sad smile. “But something has changed Cleeve. He 
was in love with someone for those few days before he 
announced the engagement, I’m sure of that. There was 
that unmistakable look of determination and excitement 
in his eyes, but, Sam, it didn’t last long, and lately I’ve 
come to think that the look was not there when he told us 
he was engaged. I can’t make it out,” she had added 
with a troubled look. “I don’t pretend to know what has 
happened, but something surely has.” 

That had closed the conversation. Col. Barrington, 
manlike, argued from circumstances. He knew perfectly 
well what had happened. Cleeve’s unhappiness sprang 
from the contemplated postponement. 

Cleeve Barrington watched his father fill his glass and 
waited for the question to be repeated. 

“Well, Cleeve, what have you settled, my boy?” 

“I’ve settled nothing. To tell you the truth I’m in no 
mood to settle anything.” Then, seeing his father’s look 
of surprise, he, with a little more deference in his voice, 
added: “I really haven’t had time to make up my mind.” 

“There’s nothing to make up your mind about, Cleeve. 
The marriage must be postponed, your mother is far too ill. 
Have you spoken to Muriel yet?” 

“No, I haven’t.” There was a ring of finality about the 
way Cleeve spoke, and had Col. Barrington been wise 
he would have pursued the matter no further, but Col. 
Barrington at the moment was too impatient to be wise. 

“I can’t stand this procrastination, Cleeve, and if you 
can’t make up your mind to tell Muriel, I’ll go and see Mr. 
Ryder myself and explain the circumstances to him.” 

“Well, that’ll just about put the lid on it!” 

“Put the lid on it! What do you mean? I really don’t 
understand you, Cleeve. I don’t want to interfere in your 
private affairs, my boy, but . . . but you know as well as 
I do that I’m only thinking of your mother. She won’t be 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


161 


with us long. . . . You couldn’t marry until ...” Col. 
Barrington did not finish the sentence; there was a set 
expression on his face and a slight twitching of his lips. 

“You’ve quite mistaken my meaning, dad. I didn’t 
mean to tell you, but I don’t want to marry Muriel Ryder.” 
Cleeve rose from his chair and advanced to the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going for a stroll.” 

“You’ll do no such thing!” Anger vibrated in Col. 
Barrington’s voice as the words came out sharply like the 
cracks of a pistol.. “I mean to have this out with you, sir, 
and by God I will!” 

Cleeve came slowly back into the room. “We’ve had it 
out, sir, haven’t we? I’ve told you I don’t want to marry 
Muriel, but if that’s not sufficient, well, I’ll tell you I don’t 
care that for her,” retorted Cleeve, snapping his fingers 
in the air by way of emphasising that when goaded he could 
be as angry as his sire. 

“Cleeve, you don’t know what you do want. You’ve 
been reckless and impetuous all your life, had everything 
your own way, twisted your mother round your finger, but 
there are limits to what I’ll stand, and I won’t have a son 
of mine go back on his word, I’ll see him damned first!” 

“Look here, father, it’s no use getting heated about it. 
I admit you nettled me and I’m sorry, but you’ve taken me 
the wrong way. I’m as upset as you are that I can’t go 
through with it. I should never have proposed, but it’s 
only lately I’ve realised that there never was a spark of 
love on my side, not a vestige of a spark, only I didn’t know 
it at the time. I’ve been a fool, an egregious ass, if you 
want to know, and it’s this knowledge which makes me shun 
the subject, makes me procrastinate, makes me lose my 
temper every time I’m reminded of my ties. Leave me 
alone and it may all come right, but if you drive me, sir, 
well ... I’ll go my own cursed way.” 

For a second or two Col. Barrington was inclined to 
leave it at that. He realised subconsciously that he had 
opened this subject at an inopportune moment, but the 
traditional recklessness of the Barringtons was too over¬ 
powering. He adjudged Cleeve’s inclinations as if they 
had already been consummated. He measured others by 


162 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


his own nature. He had only proposed to one woman in 
his life; and in his present state of heat he could only think 
of the misery, the unutterable misery he would have 
brought on his Sarah had he been unfaithful to his promise. 
His mind flew back to the time when they had plighted their 
troth. A slim, dainty figure stood before him, with soft, 
loving eyes looking out of the sweetest face he had ever 
known, and with the intuition of love he knew that had 
her confidence and trust in him been misplaced her spirit 
would have been broken, her heart dead. He would not 
have broken that spirit or given that heart a wound from 
which it would never have healed for all that earth or 
heaven could give him, and under the idealism of that 
vision, and that knowledge, Muriel also stood before him 
with the same trustful eyes, with a heart as big and loving 
as his Sarah’s, and the vision so blinded his instinct and 
commonsense that he could see no other side of the shield 
but the woman’s. His big, generous, impulsive heart fired 
his blood with the instinct of chivalrous protection. 

“Drive you, sir? I don’t want to drive anyone, but 
women’s hearts are not skittles, I’d have you know! You’re 
not a boy who might plead he didn’t know his own mind, 
but a man and a Barrington, and if you break your promise 
to Muriel . . . well, sir, I’m still your father, but a father 
without a son to honour! No, Cleeve, no!” Col. Barring¬ 
ton held out a silencing hand and his eyes were ablaze 
with an ascetic fire which seemed to silence any sound 
but the ticking of the clock. 

For a few moments father and son stood glaring at one 
another and then, silenced by that ascetic fire, Cleeve 
Barrington left the room. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A FULL moon was shining bright and unclouded, illum- 
inating the countryside with a pale radiance which 
looked ghostly beside the black shadows cast by the trees. 

Cleeve Barrington walked slowly through the garden . . . 
pausing now and then as the vision of his father’s face, 
filled with righteous indignation, passed through his mind 
. . . walked on until finally the effect wore off and he 
gave a low chuckle of affectionate amusement. 

With head bent in deep thought he continued on his 
way, his steps quickening in unison with his thoughts, and 
it was not until he stood in the drive of Swjanston House 
that he was aware of his surroundings. He halted for a 
moment and then continued to walk slowly towards the 
house in spite of a sudden misgiving which seized him as 
to the wisdom of his action. The sound of a snapping 
twig as someone walked away to the left caught his ear 
and, turning sharply, he saw a man disappearing into a 
clump of trees. 

“It must be the head keeper,” he thought, “and he must 
have recognised me; if it had been the new under-keeper it 
would have been rather awkward. He might have asked 
me who I was and why I was prowling round the grounds 
at this late hour! And what excuse could I give?” 

Leaving the drive and inclining to the left he walked 
through the shrubbery and round to the west side of the 
house. The only lights to be seen came from two bedroom 
windows on the first floor, and he was wondering if they 
came from Yvonne’s room, when he heard a low, suppressed 
ripple of laughter and, glancing quickly in the direction of 
the sound, saw Yvonne observing his movements from a 
distance. 

The sight of her standing there in a shimmering dress of 
pale blue sequins and a snow-white ermine stole thrown 

163 


164 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


loosely over her shoulders quickened the beating of his 
heart, and for a moment or two he stood, as though riveted 
to the spot, mesmerised by conflicting emotions. 

The full moon, well risen in the eastern sky, poured its 
slanting beams on a tall, majestic cedar of Lebanon, whose 
vast bulk was silhouetted against a cloudless azurine sky. 
The twinkling fairy lights of countless stars seemed to help 
the moon to adorn that cedar’s branches here and there in 
a manner which suggested that Cupid’s hand had sprinkled 
a gigantic Christmas-tree with the phosphorescence of his 
romantic world, while across the sward and between Cleeve 
and Yvonne was cast that cedar’s shadow like some deep, 
unfathomable gulf which must for ever lie ominously in 
their paths, separating him from the El Dorado of his 
dreams. 

“My aunt would be thrilled if she knew you spent so 
much of your time gazing ardently at her bedroom windows, 
Mr. Barrington! Do you often do this?” 

“I came here hoping to see you,” Cleeve replied hesitat¬ 
ingly, ignoring her teasing remarks. 

“To see me! . . . Why?” 

“I want to talk with you.” 

“To talk with me at this time of night!” 

“Yes, to you. . . . No, don’t leave me like this.” He 
put out a detaining hand and clutched her arm, a little 
savagely perhaps, but it sent a shivering thrill to her throat, 
and the faintest of sighs escaped her lips. 

“Yvonne?” 

“No, not Yvonne.” 

“Yes, Yvonne. You’ve always been Yvonne to me ex¬ 
cept When I’ve been mad. Oh! how mad I’ve been, but 
. . .”—he hesitated—“but ...” 

“But what, Mr. Barrington?” 

“It was you who maddened me.” 

“Oh! the woman did it? What a novel insinuation!” 

“It’s the truth. You may taunt me with the one excuse 
that’s been man’s standby ever since Adam trod this 
earth, but it’s true. It’s woman who casts a spell over us, 
and then we can’t help ourselves any more than a child 
can help being born. God placed a weakness in our hearts, 
and when that is discovered we ’re like Samson shorn of his 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


165 


locks, our strength is gone. But it’s woman and only 
woman who knows where the weakness lies, and is it 
cowardly of any man to fall back on Adam’s excuse when 
sometimes she attracts only to wound?” 

“I think you’re taking things too seriously, Mr. Barring¬ 
ton. I rather think there is a salve for every wound.” 

“Yes, and what is the salve? Some men, like dogs, lie 
and lick their wounds; that is their salve. And others go 
mad! But that’s not a salve, it’s a counter-irritant.” 

“And in their madness seek some other attraction!” 

“I won’t pretend not to see what you’re driving at. In 
my case the attraction is Muriel Ryder, eh?” 

“You are the better judge, sir.” 

“I’ve already told you that you maddened me. I . . .” 

“And had I maddened you when you gave Muriel Ryder 
that kiss in the ballroom?” 

“No, you hadn’t, but I had not seen you since ...” 

“It’s not fair to Miss Ryder,” Yvonne broke in desper¬ 
ately. “I know what you’re going to tell me. That you 
love me, and you want to force a similar confession from me, 
and then I suppose you’ll break your engagement. Do you 
think I’d be a party to such a scheme even if I did love 
you?” She spoke the words with such withering scorn 
that he winced. “And do you think it fair to keep Muriel 
Ryder in ignorance of your real intentions, and to hold 
her to the engagement until you have made sure what my 
feelings are?” 

“You’re not speaking the truth, Mrs. du Barry. Al¬ 
though you may not have one spark of love for me, you 
know I’m not that kind of man. I won’t trouble you with 
the circumstances which made me rush into this engage¬ 
ment, but I rushed into it quite unconscious of my real 
feelings towards you. I love you, I’ve always loved you, 
you and your memory, and ... Oh! how I hate to say 
it, but I never loved Miss Ryder. I proposed in a fit of 
reckless ungovernable temper.” 

“Reckless temper!” Yvonne responded scornfully. 

“And for my mother’s sake,” Cleeve continued quietly. 

“You must admit it was a rather natural thing for me to 
propose to a girl I thought would make me a good wife 


166 ALL THAT MATTERS 

when my mother, who is . . . seriously ill, wanted to see 
me married.” 

“I think it was very weak.” 

‘‘But natural in the circumstances?” 

“What would you think of one of my sex,” Yvonne said 
pointedly, “if she rushed into an engagement for the same 
reasons?” 

“I think it would be quite nat-” Cleeve stopped 

abruptly as his mind substituted Yvonne for “one of my 
sex.” He looked at her silently for a moment as he realised 
the justification she had for her accusation. 

“We all make mistakes at times,” he replied pleadingly. 

“Yes, but there’s no need to keep on repeating them. 
You proposed to Miss Ryder and it’s too late to regret it. 
She loves you as much as any girl ever did love; I know it. 
You have no right to go back, you must see it through.” 

Then, as he remained silent, she continued wildly, pas¬ 
sionately: “You’re not free to talk to me any more than 
I am; it’s not fair to you or me, and Miss Ryder has an 
even greater claim for fair dealing.” She began to walk 
away, but was suddenly arrested by another passionate 
outburst. 

“Fair to Muriel? Of course I’ve not been fair! I 
haven’t been fair to you. If I can’t be fair to the woman I 
love, how can I be fair to anyone? Is the blindness which 
has afflicted me to fall on you? Can’t you see that to marry 
Muriel when I love you would only consummate a pro¬ 
jected crime? Oh, how I love you, dear one, if you only 
knew! And the love your presence creates is everything 
to me. It is the love which destroys everything but the 
image which created it. I want nothing from you, Yvonne, 
but your love, and I must and will have that if I go to hell 
to get it!” 

Those words went to her heart, they rang so true and as 
her steps wavered her resolve waned. She felt that they 
were at their final parting, that though they might meet 
again their real lives would be separated for ever if she left 
him thus. Every day she loved him more. Yes, she even 
loved him for his madness in rushing blindly into his en¬ 
gagement, she could understand it now; and she was more 
to blame for the tragedy than he was. She had taken him 



AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


167 


the wrong way from the beginning, under the goading spur 
of bitter jealousy, and her thoughts had dwelt on the empti¬ 
ness of life ever since she was aware of what she had done! 
And now, in the face of that cry of his, the hopelessness of 
life without him and the force of her own ungovernable 
love combined to weaken further her resolve. She stood 
there expectantly, with bent head and quivering lips. But 
Cleeve dared not move. In the blindness of his own love 
he could not see the invitation in her attitude. He felt 
she was so unattainable that he must persuade her of the 
reality of his love before he risked an embrace again. And 
Cupid, who had brought these two together under the 
fascination of a lover’s moon turned and gave a whimsical 
smile, as he always does at lost opportunities. 

Suddenly Yvonne threw up her head and straightened 
herself resolutely. No, she mustn’t think about herself 
or her life, if she did an innocent person’s happiness would 
be sacrificed, and perhaps two, for she could not marry, 
and if she wrecked his career it would ruin his life as well 
as Muriel’s. But the fight was not yet won, the temptation 
to compromise was too great. Oh, what was she to do? 
Could she not tell him just once that she loved him? 

Then some womanly instinct whispered: “Man cannot 
live on bread alone,” and she saw through the mirage of 
her hopes, and facing him unflinchingly she spoke at last. 

“It’s Muriel we’ve got to consider, not our . . She 

paused, blushed deeply at her mistake, and continued 
impetuously. “Not your feelings.” Then ashamed and 
confused by her slip she awakened to the need for action 
and hurriedly fled into the house. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


T^OR some time Cleeve Barrington stood where Yvonne 
* had left him gazing into space while he puffed med¬ 
itatively at a cigarette. 

“So my feelings are not to be considered at all!” he 
said to himself. “Well, I think I’ll have something to 
say to that! But was ever a man more certainly hoist 
with his own petard? What on earth made me gas about 
the idealism of a love which should build up and not 
destroy? The love that builds, judging by the impulse 
which first prompted me to kiss Muriel, is a fantastic 
illusion! It builds nothing, unless you can call putting 
lace and furbelows on the seductive undergarments of 
human passion building! And that which destroys tears 
to pieces hope and ambition and everything that crosses 
its path, until nothing but the love itself remains, and that’s 
what I’ve really been groping for all the time. No wonder 
they say that love is blind. Blind! It’s nothing of the 
kind, the damned thing can see only too well, but it sees 
backwards with everything turned upside down.” 

Suddenly the sound of a movement behind broke his 
thoughts and before he could turn round he heard the 
suave drawling voice of Michael Tennant. 

“There is an old adage which I would commend to your 
attention, Mr. Barrington,” he said, laying stress on the 
“Mister.” “ ‘Be off with the old love before you’re on with 
the new.’ ” 

On turning round Cleeve faced Tennant with a look of 
utter astonishment stamped on his face. Had this man 
been dogging his footsteps? for he wouldn’t put that past 
Tennant; ever since he had meted out just punishment for 
the wrong done to Maud Bilton by this parvenu, Tennant 
had seemed to take a particular interest in all his doings. 
It was certainly significant that lately he was always 

168 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


169 


tumbling across Tennant, and was this present meeting the 
result of the peculiar interest which the man seemed to take 
in his movements, or was it a pure accident? The latter 
thought produced sinister forebodings, for it confirmed the 
rumour, which was going about, that Tennant had made 
no secret of his interest in Mrs. du Barry, whom, according 
to that rumour, he had met in Switzerland. And it was 
with no little degree of apprehension that Cleeve replied 
in a cold contemptuous voice: 

“I think I can manage my own affairs.” 

Tennant ’s eyes narrowed until they became mere slits 
in his too handsome face, but he shrugged his shoulders 
as he laughed softly with malevolent imperturbability. 

“A stable custom I suppose, Mr. Barrington!” There 
was just a suspicion of a foreign accent in Tennant’s sneer¬ 
ing voice. 

Cleeve felt himself wince in spite of his effort to return 
unmoved the evil penetrating look which, accompanied 
Tennant’s words. 

“You see, Mr. Barrington,” he continued with an added 
sneer, for he had expected that wince, “to-night is the 
second occasion I have accidentally, I say accidentally, 
overheard a few words pass between, shall I say Mr. Bar¬ 
rington, a Lord of the stables and the very charming lady 
who has just honoured you with your conge for the second 
time of asking.” 

Cleeve did not wince this time; he was trying to control 
his temper. The effort was only partially successful, for 
while he could and did control his actions he could not 
control his words. 

“Do you want another thrashing, Mr. Tennant?” 

“No, I think not this time, Mr. Barrington. I have some 
rather valuable information to give you in confidence as 
between one gentleman and another.” 

“Between gentlemen, did you say?” queried Barrington 
sarcastically. “Since when have you laid claim to being 
a gentleman?” 

“Since I equipped myself to meet you on an equal foot¬ 
ing,” replied Tennant smilingly, drawing from his pocket 
as he spoke a heavily weighted life preserver and toying 
with it carelessly. “You had me at a disadvantage last 


170 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


time we met, but now you’re without your horse-whip and 
I have a weapon which is perhaps more effective. But 
there is surely no necessity for two gentlemen to come to 
blows. I’ve some information which will be welcome to 
you. Perhaps you are not aware that Yvonne du Barry 
is as free to marry as you are ? ’ ’ 

“I don’t want to hear anything about that from you,” 
Cleeve retorted hotly, in spite of a strong desire to hear 
more, for the thought that Yvonne was free to marry was 
as staggering as it was unexpected. 

“A very noble sentiment on your part, I’m sure,” said 
Tennant blandly, “but your eyes belie your words. I’ve 
lately made it my business to find out Mrs. du Barry’s cir¬ 
cumstances, and although her father has very good reasons 
for wishing her to masquerade as a married woman, and 
she perhaps has equally good reasons for falling in with 
his wishes, the fact remains that she is not married and 
never has been.” 

There was something in Tennant’s voice which convinced 
Cleeve he was listening to the truth. His desire to let 
the man continue was almost overwhelming, but to hear 
the woman he loved spoken of by Michael Tennant was 
unbearable. Much as he would have given to fathom the 
mystery which surrounded his idol,—for somehow at the 
back of his mind he had always scented a mystery,—he 
would have felt it disloyal to discuss Yvonne behind her 
back with anybody, and in no conceivable circumstances 
could he stoop so low as to discuss her with the man who 
faced him. 

“I’ve already made it clear, Mr. Tennant, that your con¬ 
versation is distasteful to me, but let me make it a little 
clearer. I’ll have no dealings with a man who bears the 
brand of Cain on his brow. Let me make my meaning 
clearer still. I regard you as surely a murderer as if you 
had struck down Maud Bilton with your own hand. No, 
you’ve nothing to fear from me,” he added, as Tennant 
took an involuntary step backward and toyed more ostenta¬ 
tiously than ever with the life preserver. 

“I’m well aware that I’ve nothing to fear. Not to-night,” 
Tennant added tauntingly. 

Barrington’s face flushed angrily. “No, it isn’t because 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


171 


of that thing. I never loathed myself more than when I 
thrashed you on Maud Bilton’s account, for, though there’s 
no sin like the sin of seduction, there is something repug¬ 
nant in thrashing a man who takes it lying down like a 
cur. ’ ’ 

“In that case we may as well have our heart to heart 
talk. I’ve already told you one interesting piece of infor¬ 
mation, I’ll tell you another. I’ve found out that a most 
interesting indiscretion lies at the bottom of the mystery 
which surrounds Mrs. du Barry, and I think you will agree 
that a scandal which has made a high-spirited lady like 
Yvonne du Barry masquerade as a married woman is no 
ordinary scandal. I’ve already told you I’d be even with 
you one day, but I’ll be more than even, Mr. Barrington, 
for I intend to use the information I possess to some pur¬ 
pose. I would have used it before now only I wanted to 
satisfy myself that Yvonne du Barry loves you. I wanted 
to be certain that you could lay an indisputable claim to 
her heart before playing my cards. I have just heard 
every word which has passed between you and her, as I 
heard every word which passed between you when you 
called her a harlot, and I adjudge that the time has come 
to act.” 

What stayed Cleeve’s hand at this recital he never could 
tell. It seemed to him that his senses were numbed, for 
an inexperienced emotion prompted him to reply in an 
ultra-natural voice: “Go on, Mr. Tennant, go on.” 

The calmness did not deceive Tennant, for he tightened 
his grip on the life preserver. He knew his words were 
transforming Cleeve Barrington into a human tiger, a tiger 
which would spring if he goaded it sufficiently. Then one 
blow from the weapon of whalebone and lead would more 
than balance the many he had himself received, and so his 
subsequent words were specially chosen to provoke. 

“The scandal is my secret, and it will remain a secret 
at a price, and that price is nothing less that that Yvonne 
du Barry shall accompany the despised Michael Tennant 
to the altar. As I have already told you,” drawled Ten¬ 
nant, in a voice so emphatic of suppressed but gloating 
triumph that it would have roused the least excitable of 
men, “I overhead you call my future wife a harlot; well, 


172 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Mr. Cleeve Barrington, if you call a harlot one who sells 
herself for anything less than love you will live to see your 
words come true.” 

Then it happened as Tennant had expected. Cleeve saw 
red, a premonition of the man’s power to accomplish all 
he said forced itself on his mind, but it was the sting of 
that word which boiled his blood. Swift as a lightning 
flash his fist shot out, just one fraction of a second before 
Tennant struck, but not in time to prevent the crushing 
blow which, just missing his head, landed heavily on 
Cleeve’s shoulder. Then, in spite of the pain Cleeve was 
suffering, his hand closed on the life preserver, but there 
was no need to wrench it away, for Cleeve’s fist had found 
its mark and Tennant fell on the ground, breathing heavily 
like one who had been put to sleep. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


“iyf Y dear Eloise, I can’t stay, I really can’t; I must 

^ 1 catch the three o’clock train back to town, I 
promised Richard I would. We’re moving into our flat 
next week, and Richard’s so irritable, not himself at all. 
I’m afraid to leave him too long. He’s always saying he’s 
let me down, thinks I’m only what he calls ‘putting a brave 
face on it,’ and I can’t persuade him that it’ll be a positive 
relief to leave Berkeley Square. You can’t keep servants 
in these basement houses, and, besides, the place is too big, 
Eloise, for the two of us.” 

“Then I think, Helen, it was hardly worth coming for,” 
said Mrs. de Haviland, who was more affected by her 
friend’s intention than by the reasons which compelled it. 
“You’ll have barely spent four hours with me when it’s 
time to go, and I’ve such a lot to talk to you about. I 
haven’t seen you since Yvonne went. I think I told you 
in my letter that she’s back again?” 

At last Helen Courtney found the opening for which she 
was subconsciously waiting. All through lunch and for 
some time after, these two had talked with the old time 
freedom which their close friendship warranted, and, in 
the warmth of that friendship, Mrs. Courtney had relegated 
to oblivion the raison d’etre of her visit. The name of 
Yvonne, which up to this moment Mrs. de Haviland had 
purposely omitted from her conversation, reminded Mrs. 
Courtney of her mission, and, with the recollection, came 
the return of that nervousness which she had experienced 
as the car, sent to meet her, drew up before the portals of 
Swanston House. A nervousness which had been instantly 
dispelled with Eloise de Haviland’s kiss of welcome. That 
kiss had somehow made her feel the insignificance of every¬ 
thing but her loyalty and love for one who had earned them, 

173 


174 ALL THAT MATTERS 

earned them with those priceless gifts which only the heart 
can bestow. 

“Eloise, however can yon do it?” At last she had 
thrown out the challenge. “It’s that ... it’s that, Eloise 
. . . which has brought me down.” 

The look on her friend’s face as Helen Courtney uttered 
that broken sentence told her that what she was dreading 
was no phantasy of her own mind. Her friend would 
rather lose the friendship which all those long years of 
confidence had built up than allow Cleeve to marry Muriel. 
Such waves of opposition as she could hurl would break 
harmlessly on the rocks of Eloise’s determination, and it 
would be futile to create the storm. Her friend would 
never rest till she had accomplished her object. Was it 
wise to stake the friendship of a lifetime on a gambler’s 
chance? For of one thing Helen Courtney was now cer¬ 
tain; if she failed in her mission she would only succeed in 
sowing those fatal seeds of misunderstanding in the garden 
of what, up till that time, had been to both of them a garden 
of mutual loyalty and respect. Then as she pondered, un¬ 
decided what to do, struggling with a rising tide of nervous 
apprehension, the fog which surrounded her struggling 
thoughts was suddenly and ruthlessly lifted. 

“ Helen, a woman with love in her heart cannot err. I 
know the impulse which has brought you here, and now 
you’re considering whether the loss of my friendship isn’t 
too big a price to pay for the easing of your conscience. 
You feel that in lending countenance to my plot—for I’m 
sure you consider it nothing but a plot!—you may have 
encouraged me to go further than I otherwise would have 
done. Conscience makes cowards of us all and your con¬ 
science has troubled you unnecessarily, for you have really 
nothing to reproach yourself with. You’ve only rendered 
lip-service to my designs, Helen; for the moment I’ll put 
my ambition no higher that that, and in rendering that 
half-hearted service you have done more to undermine my 
determination than if you’d tried to dissuade me with the 
aid of impassioned appeals from your heart. But I’m de¬ 
termined to prevent a marriage between Cleeve Barrington 
and Muriel Ryder, I like him too well to countenance that, 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


175 


and I intend to use every artifice of which a woman is 
capable to prevent it. Now you know the truth.” 

Helen Courtney gasped. Truly she had learnt the truth 
and to her bewildered mind it appeared a ghastly and an 
appalling truth. Why had she not seen it before? She 
had often heard that Eloise was more like a mother to 
Cleeve Barrington than a friend. This childless friend of 
hers was prepared to lavish all the motherly love of which 
she was capable on the two beings, Yvonne and Cleeve, 
whose immature love meetings recalled her own broken 
romance. In the purblindness of that broken romance she 
could see no other wishes but her own, no other hearts 
but Cleeve’s and Yvonne’s, and in the obscurity of that 
blindness Muriel’s was an intangible unreality. The spur¬ 
ring effect of these thoughts acted like magic on Helen 
Courtney’s mind, her nervousness entirely disappeared, as 
did the fear of losing a life-earned friendship. 

“Eloise, how can you talk like that? You’re not the 
arbiter of love that you can say, ‘Cleeve does not know his 
own mind, neither does Muriel know hers, therefore you 
will not let this marriage take place.’ ” 

“No, Helen, I’m not! ... I’m not so omnipotent as that, 
only I’m getting on in years and, looking back, and think¬ 
ing of what might have been, I’ve come to the conclusion 
that woman’s sixth sense is her surest guide. My intuition 
tells me that a marriage between Muriel and Cleeve would 
be not only a mistake but a tragedy.” 

“But, Eloise, you have deliberately invited Yvonne to 
stay with you with the object of cutting Muriel Ryder out. 
Don’t you see it’s one thing to let things take their natural 
course and quite another to deliberately interfere? You’ve 
only one object in getting Yvonne down here ... to at¬ 
tract Cleeve. If they weren’t engaged it might be justified, 
but they are! ’ ’ 

“That’s not my object ...” 

“It is your object, Eloise, and I call it heartless and 
inhuman,” retorted Mrs. Courtney, who was somewhat sur¬ 
prised at her own temerity. 

“You can call it other things as well, my dear, it won’t 
make me love you less. You think because Yvonne is so 
like me and has in a great measure my ways that I’m blind 


176 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


to the real issue, but I’m not. I don’t want Yvonne to 
attract Cleeve any more than you do. The attraction is 
already there and I only want to undo what I’ve done. 
But that she will attract him in the process of undoing 
I’ve no doubt.” 

“Well, I don’t understand you, that’s all, Eloise! Can’t 
you put yourself in Muriel’s position?” 

“I am not so heartless, Helen, as you think, but I don’t 
subscribe to the creed that every engaged man should be 
locked up in a cage and allowed to see no one but his bride- 
elect until he’s married. I do my best to place Yvonne in 
every position where she’s likely to attract. I invite Cleeve 
to dinner en famille and as soon as possible find some excuse 
to leave them together. I waste no opportunities, not one. 
I happened to meet Cleeve yesterday, and he told me in the 
course of conversation that he was going to hunt to-day, 
so last night I suggested to Yvonne that a good day’s hunt¬ 
ing would put some colour in her cheeks, and ...” 

“Just to attract Cleeve?” 

“No, Helen, not just to attract Cleeve, but she will at¬ 
tract him all the same, she rides so well,” responded Mrs. 
de Haviland with provocative sweetness. 

“A distinction without a difference, Eloise.” 

“No, dear, there’s all the difference in the world! You’re 
not suggesting that Yvonne shouldn’t expose her figure on 
a horse and get a healthy glow" in her cheeks just because 
Cleeve is engaged to Muriel Ryder, are you?” 

“I’d like to know where the difference comes in! Why 
not put a little rouge on her cheeks and have done with 
it!” 

“I’m afraid I’ve fallen very much in your estimation.” 

“Well, Eloise, I can’t understand you, that’s all. . . . 
Put yourself in Muriel’s position.” 

“No, I refuse to consider my action in the light of the 
vested interests of any one person. It’s the prevailing idea 
of the sanctity of these love contracts which produces many 
unhappy marriages.” 

“But it’s our code, Eloise.” 

“Whose code?” 

“Well, our social code, and besides, apart from our code, 
it’s wrong, Eloise, and you know it’s wrong.” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


177 


“Helen, you’ll remember I’ve told you several times that 
in trying to break Yvonne’s bonds I’ve nothing to reproach 
myself with, and I can only think you don’t trust my as¬ 
surance, and that your distrust has coloured your whole 
outlook.” 

“No, Eloise, it’s not that. I do trust you there, I don’t 
know Yvonne’s circumstances, you do. But it’s not right, 
is it, to try and take Cleeve away from Muriel Ryder? I 
think it’s cruel and to my mind it somehow goes against 
one’s nature.” 

“Nature? You speak of nature and cruelty! Why, 
nature and cruelty go hand in hand. We give a man two 
months’ imprisonment for tormenting a cat, but we don’t 
give a cat two months for being infinitely more cruel to 
a mouse it catches, we make allowances for nature. Does 
our social code, Helen, as you call it, make allowances? 
It’s man’s nature to be attracted by a pretty face and a 
beautiful figure, but it’s not so much ours, and we women 
because of our nature take advantage of that, often, Helen, 
a cruel advantage. If you’re honest with yourself you’ll 
soon realise how elastic your social code is. There’s no 
such thing as ‘our’ code, we all have more or less different 
views on these things. I suppose you’d exonerate a mother 
parading the charms of her daughter before any marriage¬ 
able man?” 

“Why yes, if he’s not engaged.” 

“But to parade that daughter’s charms before an en¬ 
gaged man is wrong?” 

“That’s what I think.” 

“Why? ... In making his selection a man is influenced 
by desire. I don’t mean sexual desire, a man is only super¬ 
ficially influenced by that, he desires a character suited 
to his own, or rather the counterpart of his own if he be 
wise, and viewed in its proper light an engagement is only 
a licence granted by society to enable him to put his fiancee 
on the dissecting table and find out what he’s letting himself 
in for.” 

“To enable both of them to find out what they’re letting 
themselves in for, ’ ’ retorted Mrs. Courtney defensively, for, 
woman-like, in these matters she saw only through the eyes 
of a woman. 


178 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“There I don’t agree, and I don’t think the girl’s interests 
need be considered. The instincts of motherhood arm her 
with a very sure weapon, the weapon of the actor. With 
that weapon in her hand she meets all who challenge her 
heart. The attraction of sex is, unlike that in man, entirely 
absent in the woman in such first encounters. She is by 
nature more careful in her choice of a mate, and long before 
a proposal comes she has, in ninety-nine cases out of a 
hundred, learnt all she wants to know.” 

“Eloise, you astonish me,” interpolated Mrs. Courtney 
with a little note of admiration in her voice. “It’s never 
struck me to analyse things like you do.” 

“For the simple reason, Helen, that you’ve a husband 
and haven’t time. No children and therefore no reason 
why you should; but the 1 engagement’ is a man-made con¬ 
vention, the outcome of our social laws. Our civilisation 
hedges in a young girl with so many restrictions that with¬ 
out a period in Which the girl can throw off some of her 
artificial surroundings, the man could never be sure that the 
appeal which she makes to his nature is reciprocated by her, 
could never be sure that his choice is not likely to be sub¬ 
sequently disturbed. To give an engagement any other 
status is wrong. No social convention or law for that mat¬ 
ter appeals to me, which seeks to restrict what it can’t pre¬ 
vent. I’ve nothing to say against the law or convention 
which prevents a man marrying, say, his grandmother’s 
aunt; it can prevent that, but I would ridicule a law which 
says he shall not be attracted by her, if he’s made that way 
he can’t help it. And no law that was ever made will pre¬ 
vent men being attracted by the charm of face, figure and 
character, short of putting a permanent bandage over their 
eyes. And I say we women, that is those of us who wish 
to make things brighter and happier in the world,—and 
that’s what we’re here for,—would be failing in our duty 
if we adopted a complacent attitude towards ill-suited en¬ 
gagements, especially when they concern those we love and 
respect.” 

“Eloise, I agree with you in principle, it’s only in your 
methods I think you’re wrong. I know you honestly think 
Cleeve’s engagement a mistake, and if you confined your 
opposition to advice and argument I shouldn’t say any- 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


179 


thing. It’s the thrusting of Yvonne between them I don’t 
like, and you’ll never get me to think differently.” 

“Helen, my dear Helen, what’s the use of advice and 
arguments in these cases? To tell a man that his fiancee is 
not the girl he thinks she is, for that’s what unsuitability 
amounts to, only appeals to his chivalry and makes matters 
worse. And after all, our ideas of the girl may be entirely 
wrong, in which case your methods, Helen, if successful, 
might consummate a crime, and personally I don’t like 
adopting any method which is doomed to failure from the 
start, do you?” 

“I can’t answer you, Eloise. I never can, but I still think 
you’re wrong.” 

“I’d like to ask you a question. Suppose a son of yours 
got engaged to a shop girl, would you think it wrong to 
give a dance and invite all the pretty girls you know in the 
hope that he might be attracted by a girl of his own class ? ’ ’ 

“But Muriel isn’t a shop girl.” 

“I know that. Perhaps if she were I wouldn’t object 
so much. But behind the mask which Muriel wears is a 
very different personality from that which appears to the 
eye. She’s highly strung and hysterical, and let me tell 
you, Helen, she has an awful temper, an absolutely fiendish 
one.” 

“Eloise, you do surprise me.” 

“It’s perfectly true. But I’m not laying undue stress 
on the personal element in this case, what I asked you, 
Helen, was, would you think it wrong to give a dance if 
you didn’t approve of your son’s engagement?” 

“Well, put that way, I suppose I wouldn’t if I had a 
son. ’ ’ 

“If you were too ill to give a dance would you think it 
wrong of me to give a dance with the same object?” 

“I’ve told you, Eloise, I never can answer you.” 

“Well, Helen, that’s all I’m doing, but on a very much 
smaller scale. I’ve only invited one girl, and perhaps if 
I hadn’t brought about this engagement by putting a few 
stones in Cleeve’s and Yvonne’s paths I might have been 
tempted to stand aside. But I can’t do it now, I feel I’m 
responsible for what’s taken place, and it isn’t so much the 
happiness of Cleeve and Yvonne that concerns me now as 


180 ALL THAT MATTERS 

the unhappiness which my acts are likely to bring to 
Muriel.” 

“The car is waiting, madam/’ 

“I suppose you must go, Helen?” 

“I’m afraid I must,” replied Mrs. Courtney, looking de¬ 
jectedly at her wrist-watch. “I didn’t notice the time, did 
you? D’you know I’ve only just time to run upstairs and 
put my hat on, or I’ll miss the train!” 

“I didn’t, Helen, I was too keen on convincing you, dear, 
that I’ve nothing to reproach myself with. ... You don’t 
think I have now, do you?” 

“No, Eloise. It was . . . Richard who made me come.” 

“How like a man,” said Mrs. de Haviland when she found 
herself alone. And as she spoke the words a soft, caressing 
expression crept into her eyes. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


UjVf ORNING, Master,” said Cleeve, raising his hat. 

lVl << ’Morning, Barrington. Oh! How de do, Miss 
Ryder?” Then addressing Cleeve he added: “Glad to see 
you having a day with us. You and the Colonel seem to 
have deserted us this season. You mustn’t get into that 
habit, you know. We want a few of the old familiar faces. 
God knows hunting is difficult enough as it is. What with 
wire, underbred townlings who over-ride hounds and lack 
of funds, I don’t know what the country’s coming to!” 

Sir John Swynnerton, Bart., Master of the Manorby 
Hounds, thumped his thigh with his crop and, refixing his 
eyeglass, surveyed the scene. A fine figure of a man with 
a weather-beaten complexion, he only lived for hunting, 
and a very successful Master he made. 

“Yes,” answered Cleeve, “what with one thing and an¬ 
other this is the first day I have managed to get out. I 
hear you have been having quite good sport.” 

“Not bad, my boy, not bad. Scent’s been a bit patchy 
lately and we’ve struck one or two old foxes who know the 
game too well. But what’s spoiling the sport is this crowd 
of loafers who turn up in their cars and fill the country¬ 
side with their dust and the air with raucous noises. Still 
we’re going to draw Whinney Copse to-day and with reas¬ 
onable luck ought to have a real good run.” 

The Manorby were meeting at Dourton that morning, 
and the meet was more than usually well attended. As 
Cleeve looked round he took in the whole scene with de¬ 
light. Hounds were drawn up in a small field at the side 
of Dourton Church and were lazily sunning themselves, 
whilst grouped around were the followers. What a cos¬ 
mopolitan crowd they were, and how the atmosphere 
seemed redolent of good humour. Many members of the 

181 


182 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


hunt, like Cleeve, were attired in the conventional pink and 
top hats, adding colour to the scene. 

There was old Thrapston who had hunted regularly for 
thirty years, the parson from Tushbury on his cob, neigh¬ 
bouring squires and members of the younger generation in 
dark coats and bowler hats, several well-to-do farmers rid¬ 
ing likely-looking nags, and a few lady followers, trim and 
neat in their well-fitting habits. The field was completed 
by a sprinkling of boys and one or two 1 impecunious 
enthusiasts determined to follow on foot. 

Cleeve turned to Muriel, who was riding a bay mare with 
white points. 

“I’d give anything for a real good run. Do you feel like 
that ? ” 

“Yes, it will be awfully nice to be together, won’t it?” 
answered Muriel with a smile. 

“I shouldn’t advise you to try and keep up with my 
beast. It’s going to be every man for himself to-day and 
devil take the hindermost,” said Cleeve enthusiastically, 
and then, noticing how Muriel’s face fell, he added quickly: 
“You know it’s a stiff line of country and you shouldn’t 
take risks with that bay. It’s getting a bit too long in 
the tooth to be safe, Muriel!” 

“But, Cleeve dear, there won’t be any risk if I’m with 
you. You know the country so well.” 

“My dear Muriel, there is always risk hunting. Every 
fence, however small, is big enough to break one’s neck 
over if you or your mount go the wrong way about it. 
Though if everyone felt that each time he sat a horse there 
Would soon be an end to hunting.” 

Muriel glanced at Cleeve admiringly, fully conscious that 
he would be the last person in the world to let such thoughts 
enter his head. He looked so handsome, so capable! She 
felt very proud to be able to call him hers. His hunting 
kit set off his figure and he and his mount seemed one. 
That morning he was riding his favourite horse, Buster,— 
a powerful black thoroughbred with a white star. Buster 
stood about sixteen hands and had the powerful shoulders, 
the short barrel and the clean quarters which your true fox- 
hunter looks for in every horse he rides. The sheen on 
his coat indicated his fitness and his sensitive nostrils 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


183 


sniffed the breeze eagerly as he pawed the ground and 
champed his bit with exuberant equine vitality. 

As the time for hounds to move off approached, the 
numbers at the meet were increasing rapidly, not all intent 
on following. Some rather bent and bowed figures of both 
sexes who had arrived in their carriages and dog-carts were 
too old to ride, but their youthful hearts were still with 
the hunt and many of them were intent on following as 
best they could by highways and byways. Others, in their 
motor cars, were welcomed by the hunt for the sake of past 
associations and were not classed by the Master in his ex¬ 
pressive words of “loafers spoiling the sport.” Many of 
these old stagers nodded to Cleeve and Muriel with the 
smile of appreciation in their eyes, and sighs in their hearts 
for the lost past when they too looked part and parcel of 
their horses, admired among the many admirers. 

“Hello, Cleeve, old boy! How de do, Miss Ryder. What 
about it, eh? Pretty big crowd and some nice girls among 
them.” 

It was young Thoroldson, a subaltern in the Guards, who 
was speaking. 

“D’ye know who that topping looking girl is over there 
on that chestnut mare?” he enquired, pointing to a slim 
figure shown to great advantage in a smart riding habit. 
Cleeve looked where Thoroldson was pointing. Though he 
could not see her face he knew at once who it was. It was 
Yvonne ! Good God! was she to hunt ? And Mrs. de Havi- 
land had not said a word about it! His heart gave a jump 
as he strove to collect his thoughts and answer uncon¬ 
cernedly : 

“Oh, she’s a niece of Mrs. de Haviland.” 

“A niece of Mrs. de Haviland! Do you really mean it? 
I didn’t know Mrs. de Haviland had a niece; do you know 
her?” 

“Yes, I’ve met her several times.” 

“Will you introduce me?” 

Cleeve hesitated, his eyes riveted on that slim figure on 
the chestnut mare, his hand twitching as his heart com¬ 
menced to beat with an energy which seemed to him to 
pulsate his whole being. 


184 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


1 ‘Come on, Barrington, there’s not much time; we’ll be 
moving off soon.” 

Still Cleeve hesitated. Why should he introduce this 
attractive young guardsman; besides, how would Yvonne 
take it? It would spoil his whole day if she treated him 
with that imperious coldness which he knew by experience 
she could so easily and fittingly assume. 

“Well, if you won’t, I’ll introduce myself,” said Thorold- 
son. “That chap Tennant has been trying to monopolise 
her all the morning and I can’t stand it; can’t bear the 
chap!” 

As Thoroldson spoke Tennant emerged from the group 
on the outskirts of which Yvonne’s horse was champing 
its bit and pawing the ground in excitement, and came up 
alongside her. Without saying a word to Muriel, Cleeve 
moved off in Yvonne’s direction, followed by Thoroldson. 

“May I introduce Captain Thoroldson, Mrs. du Barry?” 
said Cleeve, raising his hat. 

Yvonne turned in his direction, the colour suddenly fad¬ 
ing from her cheecks, only to return with equal suddenness 
and added strength as she dropped her eyes and allowed 
the long curling lashes to hide them from view. But in 
spite of their drooping Tennant, and Tennant alone, had 
seen the look of docile dreamy softness which had crept 
into them before they were eclipsed, and his rather close 
eyes narrowed, while the corners of his mouth curled, giv¬ 
ing the face a snarling, sinister expression. 

Cleeve’s absence from the hunt lately had been so marked 
that Tennant had felt sure of Yvonne’s companionship for 
that day at least, and this unexpected introduction so took 
him by disappointed surprise that a vile curse mounted to 
his lips. The curse almost found expression as he specu¬ 
lated on the nature of the emotions which had produced 
such sudden changes in Yvonne’s countenance; the next 
instant, however, he had recovered himself, and forcing a 
smile which brought into prominence his perfectly shaped 
teeth, while inwardly he was literally foaming with 
impotent rage, he raised his cap in a manner markedly 
punctilious. 

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington.” The words came out 
with mock sweetness. “Let me congratulate you; I only 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


185 


heard of your engagement the other day, that is, I didn’t 
believe it possible after the conversation of yours I over¬ 
heard the other day, quite by accident, I assure you,” 
Tennant added apologetically. He turned to Yvonne, 
wjho suddenly terminated her introductory greeting with 
Thoroldson as the significance of Tennant’s remarks struck 
her. 

“A conversation you overheard, Mr. Tennant? How in¬ 
triguing!” said Yvonne, never thinking for one moment 
that her conversation with Cleeve that night in the ground 
of Swanston House was responsible for Tennant’s remarks. 

“Ah, very!” There was an undercurrent of cutting sar¬ 
casm in Tennant’s tone. “I’m afraid our local Don Juan 
has forgotten the adage, ‘Be off with the old love before 
you’re on with the new,’ ” he added, speaking with the 
assumed indifference of friendly banter which rendered 
it impossible in Yvonne’s presence for Cleeve to make a 
suitable reply. 

“Don Juan! Is that your nickname now, Barrington? 
’Pon my word, Tennant, you do surprise me, ’ ’ said Thorold¬ 
son. “I thought he, like Caesar’s wife, was above sus¬ 
picion!” 

“Still waters run deep-” began Tennant. 

“Cleeve! Cleeve! Will you come and tighten my girths? 
I’m sure my saddle’s slipping.” 

It was Muriel calling. She had resented the abrupt man¬ 
ner in which Cleeve had left her. With nothing tangible 
to go upon, her woman’s intuition had scented something 
of the attraction which Yvonne’s presence in the field had 
created, and this had determined her to follow and rescue 
Cleeve from that attraction. 

“This is getting more intriguing, Mr. Tennant. Don’t 
you think so, Captain Thoroldson? . . . Really, I’m most 
interested!” said Yvonne, forcing herself to speak lightly, 
in spite of the pain in her heart which Tennant’s words had 
produced. She could respect Cleeve Barrington for loving 
Muriel Ryder; that, so to speak, was a rub of the green 
which every woman must always be prepared to reckon 
wjith, but to hear her idol referred to as the “local Don 
Juan,” accompanied by a reference to “still waters” and 
“overheard” conversations was a blow her amour propre 



186 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


could not take lightly; for in spite of the bantering tone of 
Tennant’s voice she read the contemptuous insinuation he 
had intended his words to convey. 

“Still waters run deep, did you say, Mr. Tennant?” 

“Cleeve, I’ll fall if you don’t come soon!” said Muriel 
plaintively. 

Cleeve showed no sign that he had heard Muriel’s voice, 
the suddenness and subtlety of Tennant’s attack had in¬ 
furiated him almost beyond endurance. How could he tell 
Yvonne in Thoroldson’s presence that it was the meet¬ 
ing which they had had that moonlight night in the grounds 
of Swanston House that Tennant was referring to? Other 
things apart, his chivalrous loyalty to one whose image 
had been the guiding-star of his hope for so many years 
forbade it; the disadvantage of crossing swords with so un¬ 
scrupulous a coward as Tennant was obvious even to Cleeve 
Barrington’s mind, doped as it was with a passion which at 
another time and place would have stopped at nothing. 
While through his head there rang the cry: “Keep cool, 
keep cool for her sake,” a cry which only partially suc¬ 
ceeded in tempering the reckless impetuosity of the blood 
which flowed in his veins. Should he call the man a mur¬ 
derer again and slash him across the face with his hunting 
whip? Should he attempt to laugh it off and save the blow 
for another day? 

“Will none of you go to Miss Ryder’s assistance?” There 
wjas a look of reproach in Yvonne’s eyes, a look which 
Cleeve can still recall. 

As if the remark had been addressed to him, Thoroldson 
turned his horse and cantered over to Muriel Ryder. 

“It’s you she wants, Mr. Barrington.” 

Cleeve noticed the deathly pallor of Yvonne’s face as she 
spoke, read the anguish in her eyes, and interpreting these 
as signs of disapprobation for what a woman might easily 
consider callous conduct on his part, he also turned his 
horse and follow Thoroldson. 

“Don Juan! Still waters run deep? What does it 
mean?” Yvonne was unaware that she had spoken the 
words in an audible whisper. 

“I fancy Maud Bilton could tell you the meaning if she 
were alive.” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


187 


“How dare you! How dare you say such a thing to me! ” 

‘ ‘ So that’s how the land lies, is it, Mrs. du Barry ? ‘ There¬ 
fore is winged Cupid painted blind’!” There was a subtle 
sneer in Tennant’s voice, and then looking Yvonne straight 
in the face, he extended his hand. “I, too, can love, Mrs. 
du Barry, and for the sake of that love I, too, can be blind. ’ ’ 

“It is not true, Mr. Tennant?” 

“It is true! You know it’s true; would I speak of any 
man like that if his hand was fit to shake?” 

“It’s not true, Mr. Tennant! Oh, God, it can’t be true?” 

Tennant lowered his eyes and bent his head to hide the 
look of triumph which he could hardly repress. Yvonne, 
mistaking his attitude for that of a man struggling to recon¬ 
cile his conscience with a desire to temper the blow for her 
sake, maneuvered her horse quite close, reached over, took 
his hand in hers, and, gripping it firmly under the stress of 
her emotion, whispered in a voice so unnatural that even 
Tennant was momentarily stirred: “It—is—not—true!” 

“It’s not true,” came the reply. 

“You mean—you mean, Mr. Tennant?” 

“I mean that the secret is safe with me,” and then, look¬ 
ing straight into her eyes again, he added: “But remember, 
Mrs. du Barry, if I cannot accuse, you must not expect me 
to hide my loathing for the despoiler of Maud Bilton.” 

“You hate him so much?” Yvonne uttered the words 
as though she were pleading for the generosity of a chival¬ 
rous man for one who, in spite of all, had by virtue of her 
love a claim for mercy. 

Tennant was quick to catch the incredulous intonation 
in her voice and, resenting it with the vehemence born of 
the knowledge that he had not utterly destroyed his rival, 
retorted with such a ring of truth that it was calculated 
to convince even the most sceptical partisan: “I hate him 
so much, Mrs. du Barry, that I’d wring his neck if I got the 
chance! ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XXX 


Tj^ URTHER conversation was checked as hounds moved off 
* and the field fell into procession behind. Cleeve strove 
to master his agitation and thrust out the knowledge that 
all his old love for Yvonne was again reborn. How well she 
sat her horse! He thought she had never looked to greater 
advantage. After Tennant’s vile insinuations what must 
she think of him? 

“Really, Cleeve, I don’t know you to-day; you’re so 
absent-minded! Do you know I’ve asked you three ques¬ 
tions and all you said was yes when I expected you to say 
no, and no when you should have said neither!” 

“I’m sorry, Muriel.” 

“D’you know you’ve absolutely ignored me all morning? 
I don’t think it’s kind of you!” 

“Muriel dear, I’m sorry. The fact of the matter is, that 
chap Tennant annoyed me; if I get half a chance I’ll give 
him another horse whipping, and I won’t half do it next 
time.” 

“Oh, Cleeve, you frighten me, talking like that! You 
haven’t quarrelled with him, not really?” 

“Yes, I have, and I gave him a good thrashing some time 
ago, but apparently I didn’t give him half enough.” 

“What did he do?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, that is, I can’t tell you, not now at 
any rate, it’s too long a story; but you can be sure he de¬ 
served it.” 

“I thought you two were having words, that’s why I 
called you,” said Muriel, blushing at the utterance of a lie 
which camouflaged the real motive which had inspired her 
call. “It would never do to have a scene at a meet, and 
you are so impetuous, Cleeve, I really do get frightened at 
times.” 

Cleeve neither saw Muriel’s blushes nor heardlier words, 

188 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


189 


for he had noticed with no little degree of apprehension 
that Tennant was still with Yvonne and the two appeared 
to him as though they were on terms of more than ordinary 
intimacy. 

At this juncture the Master's voice could be heard ad¬ 
dressing a couple of youths, who, leaning against a gate, 
were feasting their eyes on the advancing procession. 

“Hi! Open that gate, lads, will you?" 

The youths responding with alacrity opened the gate and 
the hunt entered the field, which led to Whinney Copse. 

A few moments later hounds were put into the Copse and 
every one waited quietly while the Master and his staff 
urged the pack to its work. Excitement was rising, horses 
were as eager as their riders to be off, and a last opportunity 
was taken for tightening girths. 

“Not much music yet," said a keen-looking farmer to 
Cleeve. “Hope we're not going to have a day like last 
Thursday; did nothing but draw all day and every one a 
blank." 

Hardly had he spoken when a hound or two gave tongue 
—then the covert echoed with spasmodic hunting calls as 
the Master and huntsmen worked up the straggling pack. 

Suddenly from the far end the welcome cry, “Fox 
away!" was borne on the air; followed the sound of a 
horn as the huntsman, breaking through, called the pack 
to the scent and then hounds were seen streaming out in 
full cry at the extreme end of the spinney. 

“He’ll run down wind and make for Threseltine Brow," 
cried Cleeve to Muriel, jamming his hat down, tightening 
his grip and preparing for the ride of his life,—for the joy 
of the chase, his agitation at the sight of Yvonne, and Ten¬ 
nant's taunting gibes had made him over keen. 

“I didn’t expect the break so far down. I think we're 
behind the whole field, Muriel, and I mean to lead it to-day 
if I risk my neck to do it. For God's sake don’t try to go 
my pace," he shouted as he broke into a rather quicker 
canter than usual and then almost immediately urged his 
horse to the gallop. 

In every hunt there are the men who ride straight, the 
men who ride safe, and those who jog along comfortably in 
the rear, quite satisfied if they can keep the field in view 


190 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


after the first quarter of an hour. Cleeve was one who rode 
straight, and to-day he felt as if nothing could stop him. 

Down past Powling Mill, over mixed country to Little- 
wood, and across the railway for Threseltine Brow he fled, 
spurred on by the sight of Yvonne and Tennant well up in 
the field quite half a mile ahead,—for Whinney Copse is 
very nearly three-quarters of a mile long and Cleeve and 
Muriel had been well behind at the start. 

“Aren’t we going at it too hard, Cleeve? We’re not 
warming our horses to the work as you’re always reminding 
me,” Muriel shouted from behind him. 

“You go safe, Muriel. Buster, like his master, doesn’t 
want warming, not this time,” said Cleeve, now settling 
well down in his saddle preparatory to getting the most 
out of his mount, for to his surprise, although he had 
passed many riders, he had gained little on that pair in 
front on whom his eyes were glued. A field of turf, a low 
ditch, and they were crossing a narrow stretch of plough. 
Ordinarily Cleeve would have checked the pace on such 
heavy going, but to-day, though he sensed that they were 
in for a long run and that every ounce would be needed 
later on, he failed to do so. Down a lane they thundered 
and then left-handed over stubble. At the far end of the 
field was five feet of timber; many were safely over, though 
the numbers were thinning through refusals and a few 
spills. Hounds were well up the rise on the field beyond 
going strong and the pace was a cracker. With his eyes 
on that timber Cleeve saw two horses cheek by jowl rise to 
the jump and then over. “Well over!” he could not help 
the words escaping his lips. He had gained a little on those 
two, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had taken 
too much out of Buster. Muriel had already fallen behind, 
and now he was close on to the jump. Unconsciously, as 
he approached, he checked the pace and then, giving his 
horse its head, he cleared it like a bird. 

“By gad, Cleeve, you took that well,” Thoroldson shouted 
in his rear. “Nearly went a purler myself. Pace hot, 
eh?” 

“Not half hot enough,” Cleeve shouted back, jamming 
his hat well down again. “It’ll be hotter than hell before 
we’ve done with it, I hope!” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


191 


Hounds were now making for Heathcote and one could 
go across country or round by road. The road attracted 
most. Cleeve, bent on riding straight, noticed in a hasty 
glance round that only about a baker’s dozen were prepared 
to follow the trail, and then his eyes re-riveted themselves 
on those two figures, close behind the Master, leading the 
field. For a mile of straightforward country they galloped 
on, with hounds a fair distance in front, running well, noses 
close to the ground, tails straight. If they only kept this 
up it would be a day to remember! Across Mornington 
Park they raced, and it looked as if the pack would soon 
have its quarry. 

Now Cleeve was urging his horse and closing up on those 
two in front. A grim smile of satisfaction spread over his 
face; he was rather less than a hundred yards behind, with 
Reynard in sight, making diagonally for the railway again. 
Would he cross the line? Cleeve decided that he would 
and rode straight for the crossing-gate. Those ahead kept 
on. Suddenly Reynard turned, swung right-handed, 
dashed through the railway hedge, mounted the embank¬ 
ment, paused for a moment, glanced at his pursuers and dis¬ 
appeared down the other side. The remainder of the field 
turned and made for the gate. 

As Cleeve found himself alongside Yvonne’s chestnut 
mare his mind became more normal, and in the little breath¬ 
ing space which the check had given them he noticed with 
apprehension that his horse was somewhat spent. But 
he had not much time for contemplation even if he had been 
in the mood for it, for hounds were well away in front 
again and once over the railway the Master, superbly 
mounted, again set a stiffish pace. They had been going 
hard for nearly forty minutes, and as they thundered on 
again Buster seemed to pick up; he was the kind of horse 
that would pick up, the kind that would go till he dropped. 
He had scented his master’s desire to lead the field and 
regarded those two horses which had set the pace as born 
enemies. 

“It’s worth having a bit of fire in a horse,” thought 
Cleeve, “to be spared the mortification of urging along a 
tired mount.” 

Hounds were now a good two hundred yards in front, 


192 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


making straight for Littlewood. Down the village street, 
to the joy of the villagers, through Farmer Brown’s rick- 
yard and they were in open country again. Reynard, 
still game enough, retained a comfortable lead, and hounds 
were now running mute as they exerted all their energy to 
pull him down bfore he gained comparative safety in the 
thicket on Sluington Brow. 

‘ 4 It’s a good two miles,” thought Cleeve, “now for a 
race! ’ ’ and as if the thought had been transmitted to his 
mount, Buster drew ahead to the left of Tennant’s roan, 
with Yvonne’s chestnut mare a few yards to his right. 
There was a rather steep dip to Conston Brook and then 
a gentle rise, but the fence was ugly. It would need careful 
riding to negotiate the brook for the ground on this side 
was somewhat marshy and treacherous after the rain. 
But Cleeve knew the country well, and a little to the left 
was a fairly good take off. To bear in that direction he 
would have to lead Tennant by a clear length and there 
was a little more than two hundred yards to gain it in. 
Could his spent horse do it? His spurless heels closed on 
Buster’s flank; that grip was like an exhortation to a 
human being. Buster knew what was expected of him. 
Though tired and blown he responded, found a strength he 
did not really possess. He understood his master as his 
master understood him. In fifty yards he was clear, and 
in another fifty a safe distance ahead. Glancing quickly 
round Cleeve saw that Yvonne was well up behind. 

“For God’s sake follow me if you value your neck, Mrs. 
du Barry,” he shouted, well aware that Tennant was riding 
to an enticing looking gap in the fence, which, on account 
of the take off, promised a certain fall. The brook was now 
fifty yards ahead and looking back again he saw Yvonne 
was following him. He noticed that Tennant had also 
changed direction; the latter had checked his horse and 
was now half a dozen lengths behind. 

“Steady, boy,” Cleeve muttered as he drew near, then 
giving Buster the rein again, he felt him rise to the water. 
It was an anxious moment. The power of Buster’s 
haunches was obviously on the wane; would he clear ? 
He heard the sickening rattle of his horse’s hind hoofs 
as they struck the top bar of the fence on the other side— 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


193 


he was in for a fall—no! he was over. But it was not 
the light landing Buster usually made, Cleeve could feel 
that wobbly movement which preceeds a fall and then 
quickly, by some miraculous effort, Buster had recovered 
and was on his way up the rise. The sound of the other 
two horses as they cleared the brook reached him and his 
trained ears told him the landings were true. He began 
to mount the rise, but Tennant was drawing level on his 
left, with Yvonne close behind. 

“Take this ride as an omen for our relative success, 
Barrington,” said Tennant tauntingly under his breath, 
as he noticed with satisfaction Buster’s heaving flanks. 

Yes, the game horse was done, he had been ridden too 
hard and without care and Tennant had also noticed the 
lunging movements and lowered head. 

The rise mounted, Cleeve saw hounds close behind 
Reynard, and heard them giving tongue, for Reynard’s 
pace had suddenly slackened and it was obvious he could 
not gain sanctuary. Only one fence between hounds and 
the field which bounded Sluington Brow, so near and yet 
so far for Reynard’s hopes. His mouth open, tongue lolling, 
spent and exhausted, tail brushing the ground, Reynard 
went through the fence at a pace little more than a crawl, 
and close behind hounds pressed through, their fatigue 
forgotten in the excitement of a certain kill. 

Momentarily Cleeve’s thoughts had wandered. Like all 
true sportsmen, now that Reynard was cornered a little 
wave of pity gripped his heart, but it suddenly vanished 
as he realised that Tennant was a neck ahead, a hundred 
and fifty yards from a fence with one possible jump just 
wide enough for one horse at a time. He looked at Tennant’s 
face and read there that it was to be a race for the gap. But 
oh! the horror of it, Yvonne was only a couple of lengths 
behind, and it was quite obvious to Cleeve that Tennant 
was not trying to get a real lead. And then an appalling 
thought entered his mind; he had heard of men deliberately 
fouling, but he had never come across an instance in his 
life. He knew now, however, that he had read that inten¬ 
tion in Tennant’s face. A hundred yards from the fence 
and Tennant had only slightly increased his lead. The 
buttocks of his horse were level with Buster’s shoulder; 


194 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


a pull over to the right and Buster would be down. He 
saw it coming and instantly Buster felt a check on his bridle 
and made an effort to slacken pace. But someone else had 
seen it coming too. There was the sound of a riding 
whip whistling through the air, a smart cut on a horse’s 
flank and then like a flash the chestnut mare drew level 
and ahead. 

“Make way, Mr. Tennant, make way!” Yvonne cried 
in a ringing commanding voice, but the call came too late 
. . . Tennant had already pulled over for the foul, and it 
was the shoulder of the chestnut which collided with the 
roan. Yvonne gave an involuntary cry of horror, the 
chestnut crumpled and, falling in its stride, dropped heavily, 
flinging Yvonne to the ground, where she lay in a limp, 
twisted heap. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


4 * 1 9 M NOT at all satisfied about your niece, Mrs. de 

A Haviland,” said Dr. Mornington about a week after 
the accident. “I think we ought to call in Sir David Wat¬ 
son again if there’s no improvement in the morning.” 

“You think there’s a change for the worse, doctor?” 

“Well, I won’t go so far as to say that, but there’s no 
improvement. All this delirium is very weakening. Nurse 
tells me again this morning that she’s done nothing but 
rave about Mr. Barrington all night, and it’s always the 
accident. I’m beginning to wonder if anything excep¬ 
tional occurred or whether it was just a pure and simple 
accident. . . . Have you questioned Mr. Barrington about 
it?” 

“Yes, I have, but he asked me not to say anything.” 

“I think I ought to know. There’s something quite 
out of the ordinary worrying your niece, and I’m begin¬ 
ning to think it might be advisable to let Mr. Barrington 
visit her, but before deciding I’d like to know what really 
did happen.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t advisable for him to visit 
her?” 

“From the point of view of Mrs. du Barry’s future peace 
of mind I still think so. I’m going to speak quite openly, 
Mrs. de Haviland, we doctors have to sometimes. She’s 
raving about the accident all the time, and in her ravings 
she makes no secret of her love for Mr. Barrington. When 
I was more hopeful of her recovery than I am now I 
wished to safeguard her from experiencing any possible 
future remorse. I take it Mr. Barrington would not make 
love to a married woman and that your niece is too hon¬ 
ourable to allow him to do so. Consequently any affection 
she may have for him must, up till now, have been buried 
in her heart. In Mr. Barrington’s presence I thought it 

195 


196 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


just possible she might suddenly come round, and in her 
weak state say something that would not only cause her 
lifelong regret, but so seriously trouble her mind as to 
retard her ultimate recovery. As a medical man I have 
a very unbiassed mind with regard to these ravings. It 
doesn’t by any means follow that patients’ ramblings re¬ 
flect the true state of their normal minds, but in your 
niece’s case I’m beginning to think they do; there’s some¬ 
thing in her constant call for Mr. Barrington, I’m sure. 
Her anxiety of mind is too real for it to be simply the 
outcome of the accident, and under the circumstances I’m 
beginning to think that a visit from him might have a 
soothing effect. My duty now is to try and save her life, 
the future must take care of itself. If I knew what really 
happened it would give me an idea as to her thoughts and 
emotions immediately preceding the accident, so I think 
you should have no qualms about telling me what Mr. 
Barrington said.” 

“It’s rather a long story, Doctor, but the relevant part 
can be told briefly. Mr. Tennant was riding just in front 
of Cleeve, with Yvonne close behind. Cleeve’s horse was 
blown and he thinks Mr. Tennant noticed this and deliber¬ 
ately pulled over for a foul. To avoid it Cleeve somehow 
managed to check his horse in time, but as he did so he 
heard Yvonne shout: ‘Make way, Mr. Tennant,’ and the 
next instant she had dashed in front of Cleeve and taken 
the foul herself.” 

“H’m!” 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t help you very much.” 

“Yes, it does. I thought something like that must have 
occurred. I don’t like to think that it was a deliberate 
foul, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Mrs. du Barry read that 
intention. Women have very peculiar intuitions at times, 
not always correct ones, by the way. She probably knew 
Mr. Barrington’s horse was so exhausted it was bound to 
go down if it was hustled, and she probably saw him in her 
imagination thrown from his horse and lying helpless. 
That phantasy of her mind must have existed, I’ve little 
doubt about it, and, under the stress of the great emotion 
such thoughts would naturally create, that phantasy is 
photographed, so to speak, on her brain. She has no 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


197 


recollection of the fall,—they never have—and now the 
thought that he is terribly injured, and the love which 
prompted her self sacrifice, keeps her brain working so 
furiously that it cannot throw off the obsession. Under 
the circumstances I think Mr. Barrington had better see 
her.” 

There was a knock at the door and Wilson entered. 

“If you please, madam, Mr. Barrington has called. Shall 
I say that Mrs. du Barry is about the same?” 

“No, ask him to come in. . . . That is, if you’ve finished, 
Doctor ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, I’ll just go up and see nurse again. Keep Mr. 
Barrington for a minute or two, will you? If we’re going 
to let him see her, well, the sooner the better.” 

****** 

A little later Cleeve was mounting the stairs, his heart 
pulsating wildly. As he approached Yvonne’s room he 
slackened his pace, for the doctor and nurse were standing 
in the corridor talking together in impressive undertones. 

As Cleeve drew nearer the conversation ceased, and 
Dr. Mornington, after motioning him to follow, entered 
Yvonne’s room. 

Cleeve advanced slowly, his heart torn with anguish 
at the incessant murmuring of a weak voice, a voice so 
low and feeble that it was scarcely audible. 

A lump rose in his throat and a feeling of unutterable 
grief added to that eerie, creepy feeling which comes upon 
us all when we enter for the first time the room of one who 
is hovering between life and death. The blinds were drawn, 
but even in that dim light, a dimness which was accentuated 
to him because his eyes were not accustomed to the semi¬ 
darkness, he saw the havoc which illness had wrought. 
The pale, drawn face was still beautiful, but so changed 
that Cleeve gave an involuntary start. 

“Cleeve, why do you lie there so still and quiet? Don’t 
you hear me? . . . Heart of mine, only one word and I’ll 
be happy.” 

Cleeve’s lips parted. “Yvonne!” The word came out 
involuntarily like a cry of pain. It, too, was low and almost 
inaudible, but there was a world of caress in the way it 


198 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


rolled from his lips. His eyes had now grown more accus¬ 
tomed to the dimness and he saw the startled, unbelieving 
expression which flitted across Yvonne’s face. 

Slowly the tired eyes were turned towards him and their 
expression was that of one who faintly heard the sound of 
a long-expected voice. 

“Yvonne, I am here.” 

With those words every vestige of unbelief disappeared 
from her expression. A little flush suffused the pale cheeks, 
the two hands, which had lain fumbling and picking at 
the bedclothes, made an effort towards him, but they 
dropped back from sheer weakness. 

The doctor and nurse exchanged looks and tiptoed out 
of the room. 

“Leave them together for a few minutes, nurse,” said 
Dr. Mornington in a rather grave but relieved undertone. 
“I’ll go and tell Mrs. de Haviland she’s recovered con¬ 
sciousness. ’ ’ 

The large double doors of the main entrance, opening 
on to the terrace, stood ajar, for the day was warm and 
spring-like, and Muriel Ryder hesitated with her finger on 
the bell-push. 

She had called every morning since the accident to enquire 
how the patient progressed, and every morning she had 
left with a feeling of heaviness. The house was always so 
quiet, even the servants looked tired and worn as though 
Yvonne’s troubles were theirs, and it was perfectly obvious 
to Muriel Ryder, as it was to so many callers, that Mrs. 
de Haviland was not the only one in that household who 
missed the influence of Yvonne’s ever present appeal. 

Human nature quickly responds to the language of the 
heart and Yvonne spoke that language in every word she 
uttered, in everything she did. 

Even Wilson forgot he was the butler in the smile which 
accompanied her morning greeting. It was a spring carol 
to his ears, and he used to hang about the foot of the stair¬ 
case, sometimes, it must be admitted, to the detriment 
of his work, rather than miss the first opportunity of paying 
the homage which all men pay in abundance when the 
chords of their forgotten youth are struck anew. 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


199 


To-day the house seemed to Muriel Ryder quieter than 
ever, and as a matter of fact it was. Dr. Mornington had 
made a longer stay than usual, and its significance had 
not been lost. She hesitated to ring and the open door 
seemed to invite her in. It would be better to step quietly 
upstairs, she thought, tap lightly at the door, as Wilson 
did when he accompanied her, wait for the nurse to appear, 
enquire about the patient, and depart without disturbing 
anyone. . . . 

****** 

At the top of the stairs she suddenly halted and clutched 
the heavy banister as though reeling from a blow. . . . 

“Yvonne dear, I’ve always loved you, and why didn’t 
you tell me before that you loved me?” 

The words, though quietly spoken, thundered like the 
sound of drums in her ears, stirring her whole being. She 
forgot herself, forgot her mission, forgot her intentions, and 
walked slowly with hesitating steps towards Yvonne’s room 
—for she knew without being told from whence and from 
whose throat the words came—as though some invisible 
magnet was drawing her on. And then the sight which 
met her eyes struck her like a blow. . . . Cleeve’s arm 
was round Yvonne’s shoulders, his free hand smoothing 
back the hair from her fevered brow. For a moment all 
power of motion left her. Standing there as though petrified, 
she saw Cleeve—“Her Cleeve,”—bend over and gently, 
lovingly, lingeringly touch Yvonne’s lips with his. Some¬ 
thing snapped in her brain, rendering her mentally blind. 
She did not see the unsuccessful effort, unsuccessful through 
sheer weakness, which Yvonne made to return Cleeve’s 
embrace, nor the white drawn face of the victim of cir¬ 
cumstances who was clinging so feebly to the threads of 
life. She was not even conscious of her own outraged 
love. 

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” She uttered the words hysteri¬ 
cally like one bereft of her senses. 

A shudder passed over Yvonne’s face, she turned wide, 
startled eyes towards the door, and then her hold on 
consciousness relaxed. Cleeve quickly but gently removed 
his arm and turned angrily towards the intruder. 


200 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


One glance at his face was enough for Muriel, she read 
in that glance his intention, and fear and defiance struggled 
for mastery in a brain already more than half demented. 
And then it happened, as it sometimes does happen to 
highly strung people who have been schooled to keep their 
feelings under control, that the schooling of a lifetime 
was instantly swept away and raw, naked, savage passion 
rendered more terrible the hysteria which held her in its 
grip. She feared that look, but fear only added to her 
mental terror. With the blind fury of an animal driven 
to madness by fright, and goaded by torment, she only 
saw, as if through a red mist, the woman who had brought 
all this on her; and then defiance won. 

Muriel Ryder sprang towards the bed, and before Cleeve 
could prevent her, even before he had grasped her intention, 
she seized Yvonne by the shoulders, shook her violently 
with the strength of a maniac, and then in a paroxysm of 
absolutely ungovernable rage dashed the lifeless form back 
on the pillows and fled the room. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


UHP HE Rev. Mr. Ryder!” Wilson announced the name in 
A a voice shorn of its usual self-possession. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. de Haviland. Could I . . er . .” 
Mr. Ryder stopped speaking as his eyes fell on Cleeve 
Barrington, and the agitation, which was plainly visible in 
his manner, increased as he bowed rather stiffly. 

Cleeve, who was on the point of extending his hand, 
suddenly changed his mind and, turning to Mrs. de Havi¬ 
land, said: “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and smoke a 
cigarette on the terrace.” 

“You won’t go far, will you, Cleeve? I forgot to tell 
you that Dr. Mornington is expected any minute and you 
know he wants to see you particularly.” 

****** 

“This is a terrible thing, a terrible thing!” Mr. Ryder 
burst out, barely giving Cleeve time to shut the door. He 
dropped wearily into a chair and covered his face with his 
hands. 

“A terrible thing, Mrs. de Haviland,” he said again. 
“Has Mrs. du Barry recovered consciousness? . . . And 
my poor girl, my poor girl,” he continued without waiting 
for a reply. “I can’t blame her, and you wouldn’t, Mrs. 
de Haviland, if you saw her remorse.” 

The Rev. Mr. Ryder looked at Mrs. de Haviland appeal¬ 
ingly, but she remained silent. 

He sighed heavily, passed his hand nervously across his 
brow, and spoke again. “How is Mrs. du Barry? Is she 
conscious?” 

“No, she is no better,” said Mrs. de Haviland in a slow, 
deliberate voice. “The specialist from London went 
yesterday, he can do nothing. It is only a . . . question 
of time.” 

“Oh, God, succour us in the hour of our affliction,” cried 

201 


202 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Mr. Ryder wildly. “Oh, God, have mercy upon us! My 
child, my child, what will she do?” 

“And Yvonne, Mr. Ryder?” 

Mr. Ryder ignored the interruption. “Would to God 
this had never happened. Had Mrs. du Barry really 
recovered consciousness when Muriel . . . came here?” 

If that question had arisen a day or two earlier Mrs. 
de Haviland would have come out with the truth. For 
two days after Yvonne’s relapse she had been beside her¬ 
self with distraction. Her sympathy had all been with 
Yvonne, who lay on her bed breathing so imperceptibly 
that life appeared extinct. But she had given much 
thought to what had occurred since then and had taken no 
little measure of blame upon herself. Why had not she 
let Muriel, Yvonne and Cleeve work out their own salvation 
in their own way? Why had she sought to place obstacles 
in the path of Cleeve and her niece ? Why had she brought 
them together again? She had been an unscrupulous 
schemer, and because of that the castle which she had built 
on a foundation of desire lay in ruins at her feet. Yvonne’s 
death would be as much at her door as at the door of Muriel 
Ryder, and how could she let this heartbroken parent think 
that Muriel was solely and entirely to blame? 

“I don’t think Yvonne did really recover consciousness,” 
she whispered faintly, and in the face of such visible grief 
she felt that the recording angel would enter that lie on the 
credit side of her life’s account. 

Mr. Ryder clutched at that sentence as a drowning man 
clutches at a straw. 

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. de Haviland, thank you for your 
honesty! Muriel thinks she had, but then the poor girl was 
distracted, distracted! ’ ’ 

“I don’t think she had,” Mrs. de Haviland repeated more 
emphatically. “And I also think that the end would have 
been the same.” 

“Does the doctor think that?” 

“I don’t know what the doctor thinks.” 

That sentence was not spoken quite so convincingly, for 
Dr. Mornington had made no secret of his belief that the 
inflammation of the neck bones was the result of the 
shaking. . . . 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


203 


“You see, Mrs. de Haviland,” he had said, “quite apart 
from the injury to her head, she very nearly dislocated 
her neck from the fall, and that shaking has set up acute 
inflammation. It wasn’t there before.” 

“May I stay until the doctor comes?” Mr. Ryder 
asked diffidently. 

“Dr. Mornington is with her now and I thought he would 
be down before this,” responded Mrs. de Haviland, and then 
they both relapsed into silence, a silence which continued 
until broken by the entry of Dr. Mornington. 

Mrs. de Haviland glanced at his face and read the message 
he had to convey. 

“Can I go up and see her?” she demanded breathlessly. 

“I don’t think visits can harm her now,” he pronounced 
slowly. “Her ravings have returned. Is your brother 
coming?” 

“He’s arriving by the four train, I think the car has 
already gone to meet it,” Mrs. de Haviland replied dully. 

Leaving the room she encountered Wilson standing de¬ 
jectedly outside in the hall. 

“Go and find Mr. Barrington, Wilson, I think he’s out 
on the terrace. And tell him to come up to Mrs. du Barry’s 
room at once.” 

**#### 

Left alone, the two men remained silent for some time; 
each was embarrassed in the other’s presence. It was Mr. 
Ryder who spoke first. 

“Is there no hope, doctor?” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

“You don’t think my girl is responsible for it, do you?” 
Mr. Ryder anxiously awaited the reply, for, in spite of Mrs. 
de Haviland’s statements, there still remained great doubt 
in his mind as to whether Yvonne had recovered conscious¬ 
ness when his daughter created that scene in her room. 

Dr. Mornington was expecting this question, and it was 
that expectancy which had caused his embarrassment. 

The grief and sorrow which Mr. Ryder was so obviously 
suffering touched Dr. Mornington’s heart and the stern lines 
of his face relaxed, but he was too conscientious a man to 
buoy up anyone’s false hopes. It would be his duty to 


204 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


refuse a certificate, and then a coroner’s jury would have to 
decide whether the accident or Muriel’s conduct was the 
primary cause of death. The specialist was firm in his 
conviction that in Yvonne’s weak state, following on the 
shock her spine had received, the shaking was the cause 
of the inflammation in the neck. 

“Mornington,” he had said on the eve of his departure, 
“It’s very painful for me to have to say it, but our duty is 
plain. We can’t put this down to the accident.” 

Dr. Mornington leant over the side of his chair and 
laid a hand on Mr. Ryder’s shoulders, but before he could 
speak the door flew open and Mrs. de Haviland rushed in. 

“She has recovered consciousness!” 

The two men leapt to their feet. 

“What!” Dr. Mornington stared at her incredulously. 

“Yes, it’s true!” Mrs. de Haviland was so excited the 
words tumbled over one another. “The nurse said I was 
to tell you she has turned the corner.” 

Joy and unbounded relief leapt into the Rev. Mr. Ryder’s 
eyes. “Thank heaven! I forgive her now. As a Christian 
I should have forgiven her before, but I couldn’t! It was 
too much to forgive.” 

Mrs. de Haviland stared at him uncomprehendingly and 
then, as she realised he was referring to Yvonne, the fire of 
passionate indignation filled her eyes. 

“Forgive her! What have you to forgive?” 

“I forgive the sin of a married woman, Mrs. de Havi¬ 
land,” Mr. Ryder rejoined gravely. 

“Then let me tell you that Yvonne has no sin for you to 
forgive,” retorted Mrs. de Haviland vehemently, too furious 
to heed the unwisdom of her words. “She has as much 
right to love Cleeve Barrington as your daughter.” 

Mrs. de Haviland had not heard the knock at the door, 
nor did she hear Wilson announcing Mr. du Barry, but, 
turning round quickly to leave the room, she saw his tall, 
aristocratic figure, but a figure not quite so erect as formerly, 
standing just behind her. 

“Eloise!” There was a note of reproach in Mr. du 
Barry’s voice. 

“Oh, Gerald, my own Gerald!” She almost sobbed the 
words, and then, before the astonished gaze of two pair of 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


205 


eyes—for neither Dr. Mornington nor Mr. Ryder had ever 
seen Mrs. de Haviland show such emotion—she threw her 
arms round his neck and clung to him convulsively, while 
big, hot tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Mr. Ryder looked uncertainly at Dr. Mornington and, 
interpreting the expression in his eyes, followed him out of 
the room and gently shut the door. Outside the door Mr. 
Ryder gave vent to his astonishment. 

“Rather an embarrassing sisterly greetinghe said 
with raised eyebrows. 

Dr. Mornington hesitated before replying and then de¬ 
cided to answer the question with a shrug of his shoulders. 
It was not the Gerald du Barry he had known some twenty 
years ago. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


E LTON placed the wine decanters in front of Col. Bar¬ 
rington and left father and son together smoking their 
after-dinner cigars. 

“Confound Muriel Ryder!” ejaculated Col. Barrington, 
as he refilled his glass and then, turning suddenly to Cleeve, 
he added: “I’ve never heard of such a low-down trick.” 

“I don’t see anything low-down in it at all, sir,” replied 
Cleeve. “Surely it’s a woman’s privilege to change her 
mind ? ’ ’ 

“Privilege fiddlesticks! I don’t know what Ryder means 
by allowing it! I’m not thinking so much about you, 
Cleeve,” retorted Col. Barrington, trying to hide the real 
cause of his chagrin. I’m thinking more of the prospects 
of the Party. You no sooner have every prospect of being 
nominated as the Conservative candidate on the strength 
of your prospective marriage, than the hussy finds out 
she can’t go through with it. Just listen to what Ryder 
says. ...” 

Col. Barrington drew a letter from his pocket and read 
aloud. . . . 

“ ‘My poor girl has come to the conclusion that tempera¬ 
mental differences leave her no other choice.’ . . . Did you 
ever hear such an excuse! When she’s known you all 
your life! Temperamental differences forsooth! Did you 
ever hear such high-sounding rot for sheer damned fickle¬ 
ness? No other choice egad! There’s more in that than 
meets the eye.” 

The old Colonel spluttered out more spasmodic condem¬ 
nations, what time Cleeve maintained a discreet silence, 
waiting for the storm of words to abate. He could have 
allayed the storm if he were in a position to explain, but 
not only did a sense of justice dictate silence, but agreement 
demanded it. For at a meeting when Mrs. de Haviland, 

206 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


207 


Mr. Ryder, Dr. Mornington and he were present, it had 
been arranged that not one word of what had transpired, 
on that memorable occasion when Muriel Ryder had burst 
into Yvonne’s room, should be allowed to leak out. Even 
Yvonne’s mad ravings were to be suppressed in view of the 
fact that on her return to complete consciousness every 
detail connected with her partial recovery and relapse was 
obliterated from her mind. Consequently Cleeve had to 
remain an unwilling and silent listener, and Col. Barrington, 
exasperated at his son’s continued silence, suddenly turned 
on him with an irate demand. 

“It’s no use sitting there like a stuck pig, Cleeve! I 
want to know what you’re going to do.” 

“Well, I don’t think I’ll go for a stroll on this occasion,” 
replied Cleeve with a sly wink. “Now you’re wound up, 
Guv’nor, I’m wondering what you’re going to say next!” 

“Will you answer my question, sir, and not sit there like 
a complacent ass with a silly grin on your face! What are 
you going to do?” 

“There’s nothing to be done,” Cleeve said calmly. “The 
engagement’s definitely broken off and there’s the end of 
it as far as I can see.” 

“Yes, yes, I know that! But what I mean is, what are 
you going to do about it, going to take it lying down or 
going to get someone else damned quick?” 

“I think I’ll change my mind and go for a stroll.” 

“Do be serious, Cleeve,” Col. Barrington implored, for 
that threat of Cleeve’s had a slightly calming effect. “I 
really think you should see some town life for a bit; go 
into society, you’ll meet a nice girl there. After all, expense 
is no object, my boy, where your happiness is concerned, 
and this broken engagement has worried me more than I 
care to admit.” 

There was a frown of anxiety on his brow as he spoke, and 
then his eyes became stern again as his thoughts flashed 
once more on what he considered Muriel’s outrageous 
conduct. 

“As for Muriel Ryder, I’ve done with her for good 
and all. I’ve never heard of such a trumped-up excuse 
before . . . leaves her no other choice! If it isn’t trumped- 
up, then it’s idiotic! Why, if every girl broke off her 


208 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


engagement because she found out temperamental differ¬ 
ences left her no other choice a pretty fine mess things would 
get into, there’d be no marriages at all! If the girl had 
right on her side I wouldn’t for a moment suggest your 
looking round so quickly, but as it is I tell you frankly,” 
here Col. Barrington paused to take breath in the heat of 
his indignation. “I tell you frankly, Cleeve, if I were in 
your place I’d get engaged as quickly as possible after such 
treatment. By gad, Cleeve, it would give me more satis¬ 
faction than you imagine to hear you’ve got someone else 
in your mind’s eye.” 

“Just as a solace to your pride,” Cleeve suggested with 
twinkling eyes. 

Col. Barrington stared for a moment and, seeing nothing 
but good humour in his son’s expression, admitted cheer¬ 
fully: “Well, well, perhaps, my boy, perhaps!” 

“What about parsons?” 

“Eh? What d’you mean, boy?” 

“You’re always having a sly dig at them because they 
don’t practise what they preach, and it strikes me you’re 
now imitating them,” said Cleeve with a chuckle. 

“I don’t quite see the connection, and I wouldn’t imitate 
a parson after this if there was no other way of getting to 
heaven!” 

“Well, father, you’ve often told me that the cursed pride 
of the Barringtons should be trampled under foot, and now 
you glory in the pride which demands that I should seek 
another engagement.” 

“Yes, by gad, Cleeve, I do!” said Col. Barrington ex¬ 
plosively. “There are times when pride should be trampled 
in the dust, but there are other times when it should be 
allowed to run riot, and it’ll be a proud day for me when 
you are engaged to someone else.” 

“Are you sincere, father?” 

“Absolutely, my boy, absolutely!” 

“Do you think your sincerity could stand a test?” 

“I should think so,” said the old man confidently, then, 
rising from his chair, he walked with an upright carriage 
over to the fireplace, stood with his back to it, blew out 
a puff of smoke from his cigar and watched it rise slowly in 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


209 


the air as he added: “I should think so. Even if you said 
you were going to marry a charwoman!” 

He looked up in surprise as silence greeted his jocularity, 
but something in his son’s face arrested his attention. He 
knew Cleeve, whatever he did, would not disgrace his 
family. 

“Why, Cleeve!” he exclaimed delightedly, advancing 
towards the table again. “You don’t mean to say you’re 
thinking of someone already?” 

“Yes ... I am.” 

“And is your old dad to be allowed to share the knowl¬ 
edge at this juncture?” Col. Barrington demanded eagerly. 

“Yes, certainly,” Cleeve said with a suspiciously grave 
air. “I’m thinking of Yvonne!” 

“G . . . good God!” Col. Barrington stuttered with 
consternation. “You don’t know what you’re talking 
about. She’s ...” He pulled himself up in time, and 
then added hurriedly: “She’s married already!” 

“It doesn’t matter whether she’s married or not. She’s 
going to be married again, that’s all.” 

Col. Barrington received this statement in open-mouthed 
silence, his eyes blinking rapidly. 

“You never can,” he gasped when he had recovered 
somewhat from the shock which Cleeve’s words' had 
produced. 

“I think her love is as great as mine, and if I’m right, 
then I think our love together will be strong enough to 
find a way out.” 

Col. Barrington was too dazed to find a suitable reply; 
he stood staring helplessly at his son, and the latter walked 
towards the door and, opening it, added conclusively: 
“Now, father, I think I’ll go for that stroll.” 

For some minutes after his son’s departure Col. Bar¬ 
rington sat in silent dejection in his chair, but after a 
while he rose and walked upstairs to his wife’s room. He 
thought he saw the hidden hand of Eloise de Haviland in 
all this, and he cursed the recklessness of the Barringtons, 
but he cursed much more a promise he had given some 
twenty years ago. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said Mrs. de Haviland 


210 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


as Cleeve Barrington—pointedly ignoring the offer of an 
easy chair which she had drawn up in her effort to give him 
the warmest of welcomes—deliberately walked over to the 
chesterfield and sat down beside Yvonne. 

“An unexpected hate!” The words were only heard 
by Yvonne, but the look which accompanied them was so 
whimsical that she burst into a merry peal of laughter. 

The laugh sounded like music in his ears; it somehow 
seemed to lighten the anxiety of the thoughts that had 
made him put off this particular visit to Swanston House 
till this, Yvonne’s last night. He was going to ask her 
for her love, and the knowledge that he already possessed 
it in no way relieved his anxiety. He now knew that he 
had always possessed it; for Mrs. de Haviland had told him 
many things which Yvonne had confessed in her delirium, 
things w;hich were more or less unintelligible to Mrs. de 
Haviland, but which to him, in the light of the fuller 
knowledge of all the events which had marked his meetings 
with Yvonne, were perfectly plain. His present anxiety 
sprang from the knowledge that Yvonne was entirely 
ignorant of all she had said and all that had happened when 
she lay so near to death. And her capacity to fence,—un¬ 
sophisticated as he was in the ways of women,—told him 
that if she could hide her love and defend it as successfully 
as she had done, she was quite capable of hiding and defend¬ 
ing it again. 

Considering that she had confessed she was free to love, 
the motive which had incited her to the convincing repulses 
she had administered was to him unfathomable, but he did 
not minimise its strength or attempt to delude himself 
that it was removed. To-night, however, he meant to 
fight as he had never fought before. He had told his father 
he would marry Yvonne and he would in the end, no matter 
how long it took to gain her consent. If only he could get 
Yvonne to admit what she had admitted during that brief 
lucid interval of hers, which Muriel had brought to so 
disastrous an end, he felt the way would be paved to a 
better future understanding, and such an understanding he 
meant to have. Yvonne’s laugh buoyed his hopes. She 
had made a very rapid recovery and now, little more than 
two months after the events narrated in the previous 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


211 


chapters, she was almost her usual self again. But never, 
not even before the accident, had he heard her laugh quite 
so merrily; it was such an enthusiastic and spontaneous 
outburst that, somehow, he seized on it as a harbinger of 
favourable developments, and in so much his anxiety was 
relieved. He felt more normal and natural than he had 
ever felt before in her presence. 

“You’re not very gallant to-night, Cleeve. I was saying 
this is an unexpected pleasure.” 

“Npt at all, Mrs. de Haviland; I meant to come.” 

“You needn’t be super gallant! I was speaking of our 
unexpected pleasure. To whom are our thanks due?” 

“To an irate and exasperated parent. You see, the 
guv’nor has always wanted me to marry and settle down, 
and as I have already proposed once, he now wants me 
to make a habit of it!” 

“And you naturally want to look round first?” 

“Not at all; I fell in with the idea at once.” 

“Then why an irate parent or an exasperated one?” 

“Because he wants to have a say in the choice of who it 
shall fall on.” Cleeve accompanied the words with a low 
chuckle. 

“And your choice differs?” 

“Precisely so.” 

“Well, Cleeve, you know the old adage . . . ‘You can’t 
put an old head on young shoulders’!” 

“Yes, I do know it! Am I ever likely to forget it? 
It’s line one, page one, of the child’s guide to happiness!” 

Both Mrs. de Haviland and Yvonne burst into a hearty 
laugh. 

“But,” Cleeve continued, “it’s equally true to say you 
can’t put a young head on old shoulders.” 

“I don’t agree with you there, Cleeve. In their hearts 
the old are always young. ’ ’ 

“It’s the head I’m concerned about, the heart can take 
jolly good care of itself, I think. But when a parent, who 
has got his heart’s desire, wants to subordinate a young 
heart to an old head, then I say he’s asking for exaspera¬ 
tion!” 

“But Col. Barrington is so level-headed, I should think 


212 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


that any objection of his to a particular choice would have 
solid foundation.” 

“As his objection is not specific, but generic, your 
advocacy fails.” 

The conversation was taking a line which Cleeve wel¬ 
comed; his replies were more or less leading, and Mrs. 
de Haviland, whether by accident or design, he knew not 
which, was replying in a way which fitted in with his 
purpose. 

“Cleeve, your choice has not fallen on any one who is 
beneath you?” 

“In some ways, yes.” 

Yvonne gave a little start, hardly a movement, barely a 
tremor, but Cleeve was conscious of it and his spirits soared 
higher. 

“In her station of life?” 

“Oh, dear no! . . . But why should I be cross-examined 
like this?” 

“Because I’m interested,” said Mrs. de Haviland laugh¬ 
ingly, and then after a pause: “In what way then?” 

“Only in her love!” 

“But Col. Barrington can’t know that, can he?” 

“No.” 

“Then what is there to object to?” 

“He objects to her class.” 

“Well, really, Cleeve, I must give it up. She’s not be¬ 
neath you, and yet Col. Barrington objects. ... Is she 
an actress?” 

“Good Lord, yes! But it’s not her profession.” 

“Does she earn her living?” 

“I should say no, but I don’t really know very much 
about her.” 

“But you must know to what class she belongs? Really, 
Cleeve, you are unreasonable. Can’t you see I want to 
know, and it’s like trying to squeeze blood from a stone.” 

“Oh, yes, I think you might say she is in the . . er . . 
married women class.” 

“A widow, eh?” 

“No, a married woman.” 

“A married woman!” ejaculated Mrs. de Haviland 
with such well-simulated surprise that Cleeve was under 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


213 


the impression it was a genuine shock. “You mean you’re 
going to propose to a married woman?” 

Cleeve was looking intently at Yvonne, but her face was 
immobile, and he searched in vain for any sign that she was 
interested. 

“Cleeve, you’re not serious?” 

“Never more serious in my life.” 

“Well, I think it’s absolutely immoral to contemplate 
such a thing, and I’m sure you agree with me,” said Mrs. 
de Haviland, turning her gaze on her niece. 

“Perhaps it’s a case of ‘the woman tempted me,’ Aunt 
Eloise. You’ve always said men are weak creatures.” 

“They shouldn’t be where a married woman is concerned, 
Yvonne,” and as she rose from her chair Mrs. de Haviland 
added in a voice which suggested a change in the conversa¬ 
tion: “I can’t believe you’re serious, Cleeve, but if you are 
I must have a further talk with you about it, though not 
now, for I’ve some letters to write and I don’t like to hear 
you talking like this.” 

She gave a hurried but significant glance in Yvonne’s 
direction as she left the room. 

“Phew! Good Lord, hot stuff, almost made me per¬ 
spire! I wonder if she really meant it?” 

“Do you think my aunt is in the habit of saying things 
she doesn’t mean, Mr. Barrington?” 

“I think all women make a practice of it. It’s because of 
that I came to-night. I want to find out how many times 
you will say what you don’t mean to the question I’m 
continually asking.” 

Yvonne rose from the chesterfield and, standing before 
him, paused for a second before replying. 

“You needn’t bother to ask it. You’ve done nothing 
but talk about proposing to a married woman all the even¬ 
ing, and do you think I don’t know what you’ve come 
for?” 

In spite of every good resolution to the contrary Cleeve 
found himself suddenly goaded and, jumping up, faced her 
with angry eyes. 

She stared at him steadily, saw the determination 
stamped on his features, noticed the obstinate poise of his 
chin and the compression of his lips. The savage instincts 


214 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


of his primitive manhood thrilled her anew and, as if to 
goad him more, she reseated herself on the chesterfield and 
leant back languidly in one corner as though she wished to 
convey the impression that anything he had to say was 
really of no material consequence. 

“Mrs. du Barry, I came here determined not to be-” 

“Yvonne,” she corrected him demurely. 

Involuntarily he stepped back. “Yvonne?” he repeated 
wonderingly. “Are you mad or am I?” 

“Yes, Cleeve, I am mad. There’s no need to ask me your 
silly question, you savage man!” And, before he could 
realise the changed atmosphere which her words had 
created, she drew down his head and kissed him on the lips. 

He did not move, he stood there like one dazed, but in his 
eyes there gradually grew the expression of one who has 
had the attainment of his greatest desire thrust upon him. 



CHAPTER XXXIV 


“MONSIEUR BARRINGTON, Seigneur.” The for- 

^ * eign-looking butler bowed deferentially as Cleeve 
entered, and then left the room, closing the door noiselessly 
behind him. 

Mr. du Barry, slim, aristocratic looking, immaculately 
dressed, rose from the chair in which he had been sitting, 
while gazing meditatively into the big open fire, watching 
the flames trying to leap up the chimney and flickering and 
dying in the attempt. 

“I can’t say, Mr. Barrington, that this is a pleasure,” Mr. 
du Barry spoke the words in a tone more indicative of 
reproach than of resentment as he extended his hand. “I’m 
afraid our conversation will open old sores as far as I’m 
concerned, while as for you, sir, I regret that you did not 
take my letter as final. Believe me, there are very good 
reasons why Yvonne cannot marry, and I understand she 
has told you so as emphatically as I have. . . . Won’t you 
sit down.” He indicated a comfortable chair drawn up to 
the fire facing the one he had previously occupied. 

Cleeve seated himself and waited until Mr. du Barry was 
comfortably re-seated before replying. 

“Miss du Barry did not go quite so far as that; she said 
I must of course obtain your consent, and I’m afraid, sir, 
in this case I can’t take an unqualified no for an answer.” 

Anger flickered for a moment in Mr. du Barry’s eyes at 
the obstinate ring in Cleeve’s voice, but his reply was de¬ 
livered with calmness. 

“If you would spare my feelings, Mr. Barrington, you 
would not press this matter.” 

“I don’t see why I should spare your feelings, sir, when 
mine are not considered!” 

“And hers; I was thinking of her feelings more than mine 
when I spoke, Mr. Barrington.” 

215 


216 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“I’m thinking of hers, too. You know your daughter 
as well as I do, perhaps better, and you know she’s not the 
kind of girl to say she would free herself for the man she 
loved—and she has said that to me—unless it was her fixed 
intention at the time to do so. I suppose you don’t doubt 
that she really does love me, and that I’m equally in love 
with her?” 

Mr. du Barry made no reply, and Cleeve’s hot temper, 
which he had with difficulty restrained under the injustice 
he felt he was suffering, escaped control. “Surely I’m 
entitled to know the reasons which have made her change 
her mind, for I presume you don’t wish to imply that her 
feelings towards me have changed?” 

“Mr. Barrington, I wish you to clearly understand that 
I resent your coming here at all; I only agreed to it because 
I meant to convince you that a marriage with Yvonne is 
absolutely impossible. It should be sufficient for you to 
know that there are reasons, and that Yvonne, when I made 
them known to her, thought them sufficiently grave to 
write and tell you how impossible even the contemplation 
of a marriage is. I think she also has told you that any 
attempt to gain knowledge of those reasons which have in¬ 
fluenced her decision would cause her infinite pain.” 

“That’s true, but she hardly went so far at Longfield; 
to be quite candid, she thought it possible to obtain your 
consent, and I’m not sure that when Yvonne wrote that 
letter she was quite a free agent. Surely it’s natural and 
right for me to want to know what the objection really is?” 

“You may consider it quite natural, Mr. Barrington, but 
I don’t. I think it’s presumption. Because you’re in love 
with my daughter you have no right to demand to share a 
secret which belongs to me. No, wait!” He held up his 
hand commandingly. “I want to tell you how your actions 
appear to me. Until last Thursday, when you proposed to 
her, you thought she was a married woman-” 

“Yes, but an unhappily married woman,” Cleeve inter¬ 
posed swiftly. 

“That doesn’t matter. No man has a right to make love 
to another man’s wife.” 

“But she isn’t another man’s wife.” 

“As far as you were aware she was, and you deliberately 



AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


217 


made love to her. I consider that absolutely immoral. The 
promise my daughter made me is as binding as any vow 
a married woman can make, and I think your conduct is 
wholly despicable. Please understand that, with her con¬ 
sent, you have seen Yvonne for the last time. I’ve placed 
no ban on her writing to you, I might have done so had 
she been willing, but if she refuses to give you any infor¬ 
mation you may be sure you’ll not get it from me.” 

“Yes, I shall. I’m not leaving until I do; as for your 
insinuation about my making love to a married woman, 
I’ve never had anything more to go on than that she wore 
a wedding ring, and I loved her before I found even that 
out.” 

“You threaten me?” 

No, that’s the last card I shall play. I’ve come here to 
plead. If I can’t convince you to-day that I’m entitled to 
some measure of justice I mean to stay here till I do. You 
see, Mr. du Barry, Yvonne’s happiness is a great deal more 
to me than my own, and I ask you to put yourself in my 
position. If you ever loved anyone better than your own 
life, would you not make every possible effort to find out 
what was condemning the woman you love to live exiled 
from it? It’s Yvonne I’m thinking of, not myself. I’m a 
Barrington, and a Barrington ...” 

“Yes! yes! I know what you’re going to say ... a 
Barrington can be trusted . . . Sam Barrington was my 
greatest friend. But there are some things which Sam 
Barrington’s son is not entitled to know.” 

At the sound of his father’s name Cleeve suddenly re¬ 
membered the letter reposing in his pocket and drawing it 
out he handed it to Mr. du Barry. 

“I’m sorry I forgot to give it to you before, for which, 
perhaps, the rather extraordinary way you greeted me is 
responsible.” 

Mr. du Barry ripped open the envelope with a shaking 
hand and withdrew the letter. Slowly, as though he were 
reluctant to learn its contents, he unfolded the letter and 
then began to read it very slowly and carefully. 

For some minutes there was dead silence as Mr. du Barry 
read and re-read the letter and then suddenly Cleeve heard 
him speaking. 


218 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“This completely alters the case,” he said, tapping the 
letter nervously on his thumb nail. “Your father makes an 
appeal I cannot resist, I’ll go and talk it over with Yvonne, 
if you will excuse me for a few moments.” 

Cleeve sat there for what appeared an interminable time, 
but in reality only half an hour had elapsed when Mr. du 
Barry returned to the room and, carefully shutting the door 
behind him, resumed his seat by the fire. “You can marry 
Yvonne, Cleeve Barrington, on one condition ... if you 
will agree to it?” 

Cleeve was so overjoyed that he would have agreed to 
any condition, no matter how irksome, and it was only for 
form’s sake he replied: “And that condition, sir?” 

“Is that you will not ask Yvonne any awkward questions. 
You will just accept the fact that she is free to marry you 
and agree that the reasons which induced me to oppose it 
shall remain a closed book. . . . Now,” he added in a less 
formal tone, “I want to tell you that there is no man I 
would rather have for my daughter’s husband than the son 
of my old friend, Sam Barrington. Here’s my hand, Cleeve, 
and please forgive me for speaking to you as I did this 
afternoon.” 

“There is nothing to forgive,” Cleeve replied sincerely. 

A rather sad smile, not entirely free from anxiety, was on 
Mr. du Barry’s face as they gripped hands, but something 
in Cleeve’s grasp gave the old man confidence, and there 
was no trace of anxiety in his face as he added: “And now, 
if you go into the drawing-room Yvonne will give you a 
cup of tea, and perhaps I shall join you later when I have 
answered your father’s letter.” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


4 6 IOLLY sorry I had to send yon that letter, Cleeve. 

** Couldn't be helped, you know, couldn’t be helped. 
Case of Party before anything. Had to tell you to hurry up 
and get engaged or married or spliced or something; pre¬ 
sume you mean to go through with it this time?” 

“I shouldn’t object to giving you fairly long odds on it, 
sir.” 

‘ ‘ That’s good! I believe in treating young fellers like 
dogs . . . give ’em one free bite, I say, but no more. Only 
met the lady once or twice, but should say she’s your match 
all right. Wasn’t particularly partial to your other choice. 
. . . You know what' I mean. . . . Blood and thunder’s 
your drop, not milk and water, eh? Women are like horses, 
just like horses, sir. . . . The more breeding and spirit 
they’ve got and the more difficult to manage, the better 
you like ’em. And I should say Mrs. du Barry’s all that, 
eh? . . . Hearty congratulations, Cleeve, and I mean it, my 
boy, I mean it!” 

Admiral Travers, R.N., chairman of the Conservative As¬ 
sociation, having delivered himself of this oration extended 
his hand and gave Cleeve a hearty seaman’s grip. 

“ Thank you very much, Admiral. I am to be congratu¬ 
lated, there’s no mistake about it.” 

“And when’s it coming off?” 

“Almost immediately.” 

“That’s good. Sooner the better from our point of view. 
Fact is Parliament’s going to be dissolved, no doubt about 
it, not a shadow. ’Tween ourselves again the election’s 
fixed for the nineteenth of next month. Had a deuced good 
fight with the other members of the committee, but I stuck 
up for you, my boy, and this engagement just turned the 
scale. Featherstone, the publican, was your real opponent. 
. . . Worships the parson, Ryder, you know. Said Ryder 
without his politics—and he hasn’t got any!—counted for 

219 


220 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


more than a wife. Fact that Miss Ryder jilted yer,—those 
were his words—would make people say there was some¬ 
thing wrong on your side. Then asked me point blank 
if I knew Mrs. du Barry.” 

“I don’t see what my engagement’s got to do with him,” 
said Cleeve hotly. “Why, it’s only a few months ago he 
asked the guv’nor to reduce his rent as nobody was drink¬ 
ing beer these days of high prices, and the guv’nor did it. 
That’s all you get for doing Featherstone a good turn!” 

“Ah, there you go, young blood again! Conservative 
candidate’s got to put up with that kind of thing. Your 
private life becomes your public life, my boy. ... So I 
said I did know her. Featherstone said ‘Is she a vote 
getter?’ ... So you see he’s not so much against you after 
all, eh? . . . I’m really on the spot this morning, you read 
that. ’ ’ 

Cleeve perused the letter handed to him. 

Chief Conservative Whip Office. 

To the Chairman, 

Conservative Association, 

Longfield Division. 

Dear Sir, 

We understand you have no strong local candidate for the General 
Election which, I am directed to inform you in strict confidence, 
will take place on or about the nineteenth of next month, and Sir 
James Older would feel it a signal honour and favour if you could 
see your way to nominate the Hon. Bruce Compton at as early a 
date as possible. Sir James considers that the debating powers 
of our front bench should be increased at all costs and, as sometimes 
happens, the oratory which is so telling in the House is not so 
telling in the constituencies: the Hon. Bruce Compton’s oratory 
is of this class. He holds the House rivetted with the forcefulness 
of his arguments, but his rather trenchant phrases and uncompro¬ 
mising attitude towards unconstitutional propaganda have been 
somewhat resented in the working class constituency he now repre¬ 
sents, and we understand that an unofficial Conservative candidate 
is to oppose him. Sir James is very doubtful of having a clear 
working majority and is particularly desirous that his prospective 
ministers should secure safe seats. 

Headquarters have no wish to impose their will on your Asso¬ 
ciation, but, in the absence of a powerful local candidate, Sir James 
thinks that you would have no objection to considering the claims 
of the Hon. Bruce Compton. I would be very glad if you could 
let me have the views of your committee as soon as possible. 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


221 


“That letter explains why I wrote, Cleeve. Confounded 
nuisance and all that, bringing you from Becclesfield so 
soon, but Party before everything, that’s my motto. I 
wrote to say you were a damned strong local candidate, . . . 
Votes? I said, can Mrs. du Barry get votes? Look here, 
Featherstone, if I were a staunch Liberal and Mrs. du Barry 
asked me for my vote, by Gad, I’d be tempted to give it 
her! That mayn’t be vote catching, but it’s vote snatching, 
and that’s just as good, Featherstone. . . . ‘Will she go 
round kissing women’s babies like Mrs. Lowther, the Liberal 
candidate’s wife?’ Featherstone asked. . . . Then I 
crumpled him up, Cleeve, I crumpled him up. ... I said 
she would rather kiss a man any day. No bribery and 
corruption about her, I can tell you. . . . Kiss your babies? 
. . . I said she ain’t got a mouth for kissing babies, except 
her own. . . . ‘Well, will she kiss me?’ he said sharp as 

anything. . . . Kiss you? I said, if you got on your mar¬ 

rowbones and prayed for a week she wouldn’t kiss you! 
But she’d get your vote, Featherstone, all the same, you 

can take that from me. . . . ‘Then I votes we have Bar¬ 

rington,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t do the Colonel a bad turn, 
he’s been a real good friend to me, but his son isn’t going 
to stand for this constituency unless he’s going to get in. 
I was afraid this Ryder business would be a hard nut to 
crack.’ . . . Played my trump then, Cleeve, surprised the 
whole committee, told them that Ryder, like the real sports¬ 
man he is, had consented to be present on your platform. 
By Gad, that made a change! Whole committee burst into 
a cheer. You’ll have a walk-over, Cleeve, for the women 
like you, and the men will like Yvonne. ... Oh yes, we’ll 
call her Yvonne now she’s going to be one of us.” 

Cleeve laughed. “I’ve no objection to your calling her 
Yvonne.” 

“Wouldn’t care a tinker’s damn if you had, Cleeve!” 
****** 

A warm welcome awaited Cleeve on his return home. It 
was a sunny day and Col. Barrington was pacing the terrace 
impatiently. 

“What have you been doing, Cleeve? Train’s been in a 
couple of hours ago,” were his greeting words, and without 


222 ALL THAT MATTERS 

awaiting an answer he added: “Got some good news for 
you.” 

“I know,” said Cleeve, “I’ve just met old Travers. He 
stopped me on the way up and told me the committee have 
adopted me as their candidate.” 

“That’s the good news I had for you. I’m sorry you 
met him, I wanted to be the first to tell you. It’s a real 
good stroke of luck, isn’t it?” 

“It is for me, but it’s a jolly bad stroke of luck for the 
constituency! ’ ’ 

Col. Barrington laughed. “Not a bit of it! Every mem¬ 
ber of Parliament has to be a beginner some time, and 
there’s one thing you won’t do, and that’s betray the agri¬ 
cultural interests. You’re honest and outspoken and that’s 
what our people want. They don’t want to be fed up with 
a lot of lies and promises that can’t be fulfilled. Country’s 
sick of that sort of thing. But come in and see your mother, 
she’s very much better, you’ll be delighted. You’ll find me 
in the library when you’re ready, and I’ll show you the 
heap of telegrams waiting for you.” 

****** 

Half an hour later Cleeve entered the library and saw 
piled up on the large oak refectory table an imposing heap 
of unopened telegrams and then, transferring his gaze to 
the beaming face of his father who was standing with his 
back to the fireplace, he gave an enigmatical smile and 
selected a telegram from the heap. By some lucky coinci¬ 
dence it was a very important one. 

Hearty congratulations. Hope to attend your first meeting. 
Am an ardent Conservative now for your sake.—R yder. 

A smile of pleasure lit up Cleeve’s face and his father, 
seeing the smile, with almost boyish enthusiasm plucked 
the telegram out of his hand. 

“My word, this is good news, Cleeve. Fancy Padre 
Ryder entering politics, it’ll stir the whole countryside!” 

“Yes, it will, and I think it’s really sporting of him, but 
what on earth am I to do? I can’t answer all these,” said 
Cleeve surveying, with a clouded face, the heap of telegrams 
on the table. 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


223 


“You’ve got to and we’ll manage it somehow. ... I’ve 
engaged a secretary for you ... a lady, Cleeve.” 

“I’m not going to have any lady secretary messing about 
me, Guv’nor.” 

“Why not?” 

“They’re more bother than they’re worth. I understand 
their sole idea of work is making tea. No, Guv’nor, it won’t 
do. I would much prefer a man. There’s young Feather- 
stone, he’s had a good education and I like him.” 

“Well, unfortunately, Cleeve, I’ve engaged her.” 

“Don’t let that worry you, we’ll get rid of her somehow: 
I really can’t put up with a woman secretary, she’ll be 
opening all sorts of letters ... by mistake, of course; they 
can’t get over their natural curiosity.” 

“It’s too late, Cleeve, it’s done. She’s arriving by the 
six train, I’ve just had a wire.” 

“Well, Guv’nor, it’s you who’ve lost your head this time; 
why didn’t you wait? Surely I’m entitled to have some 
say in the matter; she’s coming by the six train, you say. 
Well I think there’s only one thing to do and that is for 
you to meet the train, explain how the mistake happened, 
and say you’ll write and send her a cheque.” 

“I was going to propose, Cleeve, that you met the train, 
but I’ll meet it myself, I can see it’s no use asking you to 
change your mind when you’re in this mood. It’ll be rather 
hard on her to send her back, but you’re so obstinate it’s 
no use doing anything else. I shan’t interfere again, 
Cleeve, I’ll leave you to make whatever mess you like with 
your arrangements.” Col. Barrington spoke these sen¬ 
tences in a rather provocative manner, and then seeing 
his son was still in no mood to compromise he gave an 
impatient snort of disgust and hurriedly left the room. 

For the remainder of the day Col. Barrington kept out of 
Cleeve’s way. He had lunch upstairs with his wife as usual, 
but when tea time came round and he failed to put in an 
appearance, Cleeve somewhat regretted those hasty words 
of the morning, and went in search of his father. 

“Do you know where the guv’nor is, Elton?” 

“He’s in his study, Mr. Cleeve. He said he had a lot of 
work to do and didn’t want to be disturbed, but he’s or¬ 
dered the car round at a quarter to six.” 


224 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


A few seconds later Cleeve burst unceremonious!/ into 
his father’s study. “Look here, Guv’nor, what’s the mean¬ 
ing of this?” 

“Nothing much, Cleeve, only I’m disappointed. I don’t 
like telling a lady secretary she’s not wanted, and I’m just 
sitting here screwing up my courage. I’ll look such a 
damned fool. Sent the girl a wire to come at once and now, 
because you’re so obstinate, I’ve to go and send her back. 
All because you’re frightened she’ll open your letters from 
Yvonne. What does it matter if she does?” 

“Guv’nor, I’m not going to see you upset yourself like 
this; after all you did it to help me, and as you don’t like 
the task of sending her back I’ll meet the train myself.” 

And so it happened that at five to six, Cleeve found him¬ 
self walking up and down the platform in a perfectly calm 
frame of mind. He would send her back jolly quickly . . . 
quite easy. . . . His father had made a mistake, a woman 
secretary was quite unsuitable for parliamentary work. He 
would send her a cheque for a month’s salary by return of 
post and pay her fare; simple as anything. And on the way 
back he would call round and see young Featherstone, and 
that load would be off his mind. . . . 

There was a slight roar on the rails and Cleeve, looking 
down the line, saw the express from London rushing into 
the station. Followed the grinding of brakes on the wheels 
as the train drew up with the noise of escaping steam 
hissing out in great white clouds from the engine. A soli¬ 
tary door opened and a feminine gloved hand was thrust 
out of the window. 

“Good Lord, travels first-class! Dainty looking hand, 
too dainty for work, I should think. I know the sort . . . 
bobbed hair and transparent silk stockings.” 

Realising the meeting was at hand, he gave thought to 
his opening greeting. Good Lord, he’d forgotten to ask her 
name! Well, he would go and ask her if she were the 
secretary Col. Barrington had engaged. 

Then he saw another door opening. It was a third-class 
one this time, and true to life the bobbed hair and trans¬ 
parent silk stockings emerged. Cleeve was so close to the 
owner that they almost collided. 

“Are you the secretary Col. Barrington engaged?” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 225 

A perky face, with merry, laughing blue eyes stared into 
his. 

“I’m the secretary,” she admitted in a surprisingly mus¬ 
ical voice. A fascinating dimple deepened in her cheek 
as she smiled, and Cleeve thought he had not quite such an 
easy task after all. 

“I’m Mr. Barrington,” he managed to get out. . . . 
“And . . 

But she was speaking again. “I was told I would be 
met. It is good of you to come; I shouldn’t have known 
what to do.” 

The train was moving out of the station, but Cleeve 
noticed only those expressive eyes. The merriment had 
died away and there was something sad and careworn in 
their expression now. She looked so frank and honest that 
her stockings and bobbed hair seemed a wrong setting, and 
Cleeve was puzzled. 

“You don’t know what this appointment means to me,” 
she said naively. “My mother’s ill, you know.” She 
spoke as if he had known all about her, and he wondered 
if his mother had played an important part in the appoint¬ 
ment. She was always doing people good turns, and per¬ 
haps that was why his father had been so hasty. No, it 
was not such an easy task to send the girl away. No won¬ 
der his father hadn’t liked it. What the devil was he to 
do? He couldn’t send her back, not before he’d had a talk 
with his mother, that was clear. 

“Where’s your luggage?” 

“I’ve only got this case.” 

His eyes fell on a rather large papier-mache case she was 
carrying. 

“Well, come along then, the car’s waiting,” said Cleeve, 
taking charge of her case, and then quickly entering the 
car they drove away. 

Cleeve gave rein to his thoughts. He would have to talk 
things over with his father again. They could not send her 
away at once, not very well, for as he plied her with ques¬ 
tions, he realised what the appointment meant to her. 
Among other things she had been given to understand that 
if he were elected the appointment would probably be 
permanent. 


226 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“My name is Barrington, not Harrington,” he said in 
answer to one of her remarks. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I don’t often make mis¬ 
takes, you know.” And then, thinking from his manner 
that he was none too pleased at that mistake, she added, as 
if to convince him of her worthiness: “At any rate, my 
last employer was very pleased with me.” She opened her 
handbag and drew out a testimonial, which she handed 
silently to Cleeve. 

Miss Winifred Ellis has been in our employ for the past two 
years. She joined as a copying clerk and has, during the last six 
months, acted as confidential shorthand typist, in which capacity 
she has thoroughly justified the confidence we reposed in her. She 
is extremely accurate and reliable, and nothing but our straitened 
financial circumstances and the liquidation of the firm due to ex¬ 
cessive taxation would have induced us to part with her. She 
bears a most excellent character and her self-sacrificing devotion 
to her invalid mother is so well known to us that we commend this 
fact to any prospective employer. 

Thompson, Simpson and Jones, 

General Merchants. 

The open pride which she took in this testimonial was 
so indicative of her trusting naivete that Cleeve’s resolve 
suffered another shock, but a woman secretary was really 
unthinkable! He’d have to talk to his mother pretty ser¬ 
iously about it. He could deal with a man, but how on 
earth could he say to this trusting, frail-looking child who 
had suffered from the buffeting of adversity: “Look here, 
this is all tosh,” or “Look here, this is sheer damned piffle,” 
as was his wont when reading letters of which he didn’t 
approve. It was with his mind still in this state of inde¬ 
cision that the car drew up and he saw his father coming 
to meet them. 

“Well, Cleeve, my boy, I see you’ve not sent her away, 
ha! ha! Thought you would change your mind when you 
saw her. Got persuasive little ways, eh?” 

Cleeve was dumbfounded. Had his father gone off his 
head? And without vouchsafing a word he descended from 
the limousine and handed out his companion. 

“Good God! What’s the meaning of this?” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


227 


“This is the secretary you appointed, sir.” Cleeve spoke 
in a cold voice of reproof. “Let me introduce you.” 

But Col. Barrington was too dazed to put out his hand. 
He stood there with eyes which wandered from the bobbed 
hair to the transparent silk stockings and back to the 
bobbed hair again, and then he found his tongue. 

“I didn’t engage her. I didn’t engage any fly-by night!” 

“Well, I engaged this lady,” Cleeve returned in a voice 
quivering with suppressed indignation. “And I resent 
your epithet, sir.” 

He had given the girl a furtive glance and had seen the 
tears in her eyes, the agony of her expression. 

“I don’t understand! Is it a hoax?” She whispered the 
words to herself, almost inaudibly, but they were not lost 
to Cleeve’s quick ears. 

“No hoax at all, Miss ... I didn’t catch your name?” 
responded Cleeve, who unfortunately had not paid par¬ 
ticular attention to the name on her testimonial. 

The girl was thinking hard. They didn’t even know her 
name? Then it was a hoax, after all. Well, she must be 
brave. 

“I didn’t catch your name?” Cleeve reiterated insist¬ 
ently. 

“Ellis; Winifred Ellis.” 

“Let me introduce my secretary, father, Miss Ellis.” 

But Col. Barrington still refused his hand; his eyes were 
fixed on an approaching car, which he recognised as be¬ 
longing to the Station Hotel. It would have been difficult 
to say who was the more astonished, Col. Barrington at the 
new secretary, or Cleeve as the second car drew up and 
Yvonne jumped lightly out. 

“What’s all this, Cleeve?” Yvonne demanded, their 
first greetings over, taking in at a glance the tragedy of 
shattered hopes reflected on the little secretary’s face. The 
latter had re-obtained possession of that cheap-looking case 
and Yvonne noticed its worn appearance. Yvonne noticed 
more than this . . . the poor quality of her clothes. And, 
woman-like, she ascribed to its true cause the transparency 
of her stockings; they, too, were cheap, and that was why 
the girl had bought them. As for the bobbed hair, it meant 
nothing, surmounting such a face. For some unaccountable 


228 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


reason Cleeve made no reply to Yvonne’s remark. The 
little secretary had, meanwhile, put down her case and was 
opening her handbag. Slowly she withdrew a telegram 
which bore traces of constant fingering; and in truth it had 
been opened time and again and perused and replaced in 
the bag, only to be taken out again and re-read; it looked as 
if it had been in existence as many months as it had been 
hours. . . . 

Major Lowther offers you temporary post as secretary provided 
you can join at once. Chance of permanency if re-elected. Come 
by four-twenty from Paddington for preliminary interview. Train 
will be met. 

Harrington. 

“I’m afraid a little joke of mine has miscarried, Yvonne,” 
Col. Barrington began diffidently. “I didn’t tell Cleeve 
I had asked you to come down to help him with his secre¬ 
tarial work, and he objected so strongly to a lady secretary 
that I let him meet the train, fully expecting you would 
soon be able to change his mind. But I can’t understand 
what he means by bringing Miss Ellis here. I never com¬ 
municated with her in any way.” 

“I think this telegram explains the mistake,” Yvonne 
interposed, handing it to Col. Barrington, whose expression 
changed to one of relief when he read it. 

“Oh, I see howi it is . . . It’s only a little mistake, my 
dear,” he said in a voice which made up for his former 
brusqueness. “I’m sorry I was so unkind, come and have 
tea, for you must he tired after your journey. Afterwards 
I’ll send you on to Mr. Harrington in the car.” 

He led the way into the house, glancing behind to see 
if the other two were following, but Yvonne had drawn 
Cleeve aside and they were now talking earnestly together. 
Col. Barrington smiled indulgently as he continued on his 
way, with Miss Ellis close behind. 

“I wondered what you were doing at the station, Cleeve; 
you were so engrossed with Miss Ellis that you left me to 
fend for myself.” There was a look of mock reproach in 
her eyes. 

“I didn’t know you were expected. I suppose it was a 
practical joke of the Guv’nor’s but it’s rather misfired! 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


229 


Harrington is the Liberal agent down here and, judging by 
that telegram, he has offered Miss Ellis a post. I, of 
course, went down to the station fully intending to send 
my secretary back.” There was a twinkle of enjoyment in 
his eyes, “but I hadn’t the heart when I saw that poor little 
thing, although the bobbed hair and stockings very nearly 
precipitated matters! ’ ’ 

“Can’t you see she’s poor, Cleeve, as poor as she can be? 
. . . And poor people haven’t time to go in for elaborate 
hairdressing, and they buy transparent stockings because 
no one wears them nowadays and they’re very cheap. I 
like her, Cleeve, and after all I’m no use as a secretary.” 

“I never thought you would be! I think I want a man, 
really, don’t you, dear?” 

“No, I don’t,” Yvonne shook her head decidedly. 
“You’re going to have Miss Ellis.” 

Cleeve looked at her teasingly. “Now, Yvonne, you’re 
not going to start bossing me so soon, are you? Besides, I 
can’t have her; she’s going to work for Major Lowther.” 

“I’m not so sure about that. Let’s drive over to Mr. 
Harrington’s and see what we can do.” 

“And what about tea? You’re tired, Yvonne dear, you 
must be! ” 

“Never mind tea, the car’s here and the tea can wait. I 
believe in striking while the iron’s hot.” 

“You’re the only woman I know who is thoroughly con¬ 
sistent with her beliefs,” Cleeve murmured admiringly, 
“but do have tea first.” 

“I’ve had a cup of tea on the train and I’d rather settle 
this first.” 

****** 

Later, when they returned, they found Col. Barrington 
doing his best to entertain Miss Ellis, and apparently suc¬ 
ceeding very well. 

“Well, you two have been a long time. The tea’s cold, 
you’d better ring for more, Yvonne, my dear. What a lot 
you must have had to talk about, eh?” 

“We’ve been to Mr. Harrington’s,” Yvonne announced 
calmly, “and he has no objection to Cleeve claiming Miss 
Ellis’ services. It appears one of the committee of the 
Liberal Association knows your mother,” she looked smil- 


230 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


ingly at Miss Ellis, who seemed strangely comforted by the 
warmth and sincerity of the smile, “and he persuaded 
Major Lowther to give Miss Ellis the offer, though per¬ 
sonally Major Lowther favoured a local candidate. Any¬ 
way, the result is that Mr. Harrington has no objection to 
your working for Mr. Barrington.” 

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said Col. Barrington en¬ 
thusiastically. “I think Miss Ellis will make an excellent 
secretary. You’ll excuse an old man being a little put out 
at the mistake, won’t you?” 

Miss Ellis nodded her head shyly. 

And so it came about that Winifred Ellis took up her 
residence at Longton Hall, and played no insignificant part 
in the hastening of the storm clouds which were, unknown 
to Cleeve Barrington, already gathering round him. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


HHHE Town Hall was crowded to overflowing when Cleeve 
* Barrington arrived fifteen minutes before the time ap¬ 
pointed for the opening of his first political meeting. 

As he advanced towards the platform his progress was 
interrupted by well-wishers pressing round, anxious to offer 
him personal congratulations and shake his hand. 

His entry had been signalled by a great cheer, not, how¬ 
ever, unmixed with a few boos and hisses, which Cleeve’s 
sharp ears were not slow to detect. 

Those boos and hisses were heard, however, by other ears 
than Cleeve’s, and it was eloquent of the good-fellowship 
which existed in that agricultural constituency between the 
landed class, the tenantry and the labourers that those man¬ 
ifestations of disapproval acted like a rallying call. Men 
and women left their seats with one accord, as though 
anxious to dissociate themselves as soon as possible from 
any hostile demonstration, and the crowd round Cleeve 
soon became so great that he had literally to fight his way 
with hand-shakes and good-humoured banter to the plat¬ 
form. 

Twice he had almost reached it, only to be dragged back 
again. It was an ovation he had not expected, and a tribute 
to his total absence of condescension in all his dealings 
with those who were not so favoured by fortune as he was. 
It was a tribute to his eagerness to play in the local cricket 
or football teams whenever his services were required; a 
tribute to a man who could hold his own, with any of them, 
in the pursuits and sports of the countryside, and an ex¬ 
pression of appreciation for a man always and ever a good 
winner and chivalrous loser. 

His very recklessness, which was deplored by so many of 
his friends, was to those country folk a gift of the gods, and 
an ever-recurring topic of conversation and amusement. If 

281 


232 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Longfield had made 120 runs for six wickets Cleeve Bar¬ 
rington usually went in and made a duck, and then and 
there walked back to the wooden structure which did duty 
as a pavilion with the air of one who had had full value 
out of that slog at a straight and well-pitched ball. If 
Longfield had six wickets down for twenty-two runs Cleeve 
Barrington went in, and, in nine cases out of ten, hit out like 
one possessed; probably scoring off his own bat something 
like sixty runs in little more than half as many minutes. 

These things count in a country town, and his popularity 
was such that it was not until his third attempt to gain 
the platform that Cleeve looked like succeeding. Suddenly 
his attention was attracted to a small thin hand, whose 
owner was hidden in the crush behind. Cleeve made an 
attempt to grip it, but as his hand closed he found his 
fingers tightening on a slip of paper, and himself dragged 
back into the vortex of the throng. Quickly transferring 
the note to his waistcoat pocket without making any at¬ 
tempt to read it, he made one more effort to mount the 
steps, and a second later found himself on the platform, 
receiving the congratulations of his active supporters. 

“Fine meeting you’re going to have, Cleeve!” said Col. 
Cartwright, who, in Admiral Travers’ enforced absence 
abroad, owing to illness, was acting as chairman to the Con¬ 
servative Association. “I think we’d better make a start, 
as I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you have to address an 
outside meeting from the steps. There are more outside 
than in; I’ve never seen the town so excited!” 

Cleeve had barely nodded his assent when Col. Cartwright 
held up his hand for silence. 

Although it was not the first meeting Cleeve had ad¬ 
dressed he was not free from nervousness, for those boos 
and hisses had not been entirely forgotten, and, moreover, 
it was the first meeting he had addressed on his own behalf. 
He had never had much difficulty in making a speech, but 
it was easier to advocate another’s claims than his own. 
“Much easier,” he said to himself, “to tell his fellowmen 
what a fine chap Mr. So-and-So was than to get on his hind 
legs and blow his own trumpet.” 

“Ladies and Gentlemen: 

“We are here to-night for the express purpose of assuring 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


233 


Mr. Cleeve Barrington that the Conservatives of this con¬ 
stituency are with him in the coming election. If the 
packed state of this hall is eloquent of the support you are 
prepared to give him, I should say there is no doubt of the 
popularity of our local candidate; but an even greater 
number has been unable to obtain admission and, with your 
permission, I propose that we should make these proceed¬ 
ings as brief as possible, in order that Mr. Barrington may 
have an opportunity of saying a few words to those outside, 
before it gets too late.” 

“Hear, hear!” was the hearty response of the front rows, 
but from the back came the unanimous retort: “We don’t 
want to hear him!” 

Immediately, right at the back, a man stood up whom no 
one on the platform recognised. The people in front in¬ 
stinctively turned round to gain a view of him as he shouted 
his remarks in a penetrating voice: 

“We don’t want to ’ear Mr. Barrington or any other 
damned capitalist. What abaht ’ouses?” 

Before he finished speaking another man took up the 
running, and in an even more penetrating voice shouted: 

“Look ’ere, we don’t want no nonsense over this ’ere 
general Hillection; we want to know if you’re going to 
make this country fit for ’eroes to live in. The likes of 
Mr. Barrington, and the rest of you blooming lot of parasites 
on the platform, have ground down the working man until 
’e’s turned; and we ain’t feeding no more on sugar-coated 
lies—we’ve ’ad enough!” 

Then a third man joined in, but in the pandemonium of 
noise he appeared to be giving vent to nothing but spas¬ 
modic, vituperative expletives. 

In vain the chairman pleaded for silence, in vain some¬ 
one in front demanded that the intruders be “pinched by 
their blinking noses and led out of the ’all!” Followed 
hisses and groans, accompanied by derisive laughter as Col. 
Cartwright appealed for fair play, and then a shrieking 
virago stood up on a chair and in a shrill, piercing voice 
shouted: 

“Fair play! None o’ yer mealy mouthed words is any 
blarsted use now! Time’s past for that sort of bloody rot 
to go down ’ere!” 


234 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“My good woman!” The chairman’s stentorian voice 
could now be heard above the din. “I appeal to you as 
an Englishwoman to give us a fair-” 

This was the signal for another outburst from the back 
of the Hall. It was also the signal for the supporters of 
Cleeve Barrington to raise their voices. The situation was 
fast becoming ugly. 

There were hurried consultations on the platform, but 
Cleeve took no part in them; he sat silently waiting for an 
opportunity to intervene, and somehow he felt confident 
that when the opportunity arose he could restore order. 

With the first sign of concerted action from the rear of 
the Hall every vestige of his nervousness had disappeared. 
He had come quite prepared to find men present, and even 
women, who in the matter of politics did not see eye to 
eye with him; quite prepared for unmerciful heckling, hop¬ 
ing to give as good as he received; but not for one moment 
had he anticipated the possibility of such heat, and the 
coolness which often comes to reckless, impulsive natures 
in a critical hour was his. “He would give them three min¬ 
utes more,” he thought, and, pulling out his watch to take 
the time, something fluttered to the ground. 

It was the note that had been thrust into his hand; he 
bent down, picked it up and opened it. It was in the hand¬ 
writing of Winifred Ellis. 

“The back of the Hall has been packed with a rowdy 
element and the leader has a seat on my left.” 

He read the message twice and then, looking over the 
sea of faces, his eyes travelled from row to row, scanning 
them carefully until it rested on the pale immobile face of 
his secretary. On her left sat Michael Tennant, his cynical 
eyes staring through narrowed slits into Cleeve’s own with 
malevolent amusement lurking in their depths, and then, 
as though he had been waiting for that exchange of glances, 
Michael Tennant slowly raised his hand. 

Immediately, the crowd at the back rose to its feet, red 
flags and banners appeared as suddenly as if they had 
descended like rain from the clouds, and the opening verse 
of the “Red Flag” thundered through the Hall. 

Col. Cartwright leant over, scribbled a hurried note and, 
handing it to Cleeve, who was sitting on his right, said in a 



AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


235 


hoarse whisper: “Get someone to take this to the police 
station at once.” 

Cleeve took the note, read it, shook his head and, tearing 
the note up quite calmly, threw the pieces on the floor just 
as the verse ended. Then, in the pause which followed, 
Cleeve Barrington rose to his feet, his eyes still on Michael 
Tennant, who, caught in the act of raising his hand again, 
was giving the pre-arranged signal with his followers to 
rush the Hall. 

But there was something in the look on Cleeve Barring¬ 
ton’s face that momentarily arrested everyone’s attention. 
For one fraction of a second he held that Hall mesmerised, 
and in the stillness which followed he slowly and with 
uncanny calmness, advanced to the steps. Those who saw 
his face, and they were everyone without exception in the 
body of that Hall, were aware of only one thing—the look 
on that face. He was descending the steps, he was walk¬ 
ing down the Hall, slowly and deliberately. There was no 
trace of haste, no trace of recklessness. On the contrary 
Cleeve walked as calmly, as coolly, as if he had been alone. 
Walked past row after row, until he came to that in which 
Tennant was sitting. 

With an inclination of the head he indicated that Tennant 
should leave the Hall. 

The only response Michael Tennant made, was to shrink 
back in his chair, an act which his paid hirelings interpreted 
as evidence of extreme cowardice. In that second they felt 
they had lost their leader, and with that knowledge their 
enthusiasm for their task completely evaporated. 

There was something too ominous in the silence; too 
ominous in that look on Cleeve’s face for Tennant, or any¬ 
one else, to move. The absence of motion was fatal. The 
next instant Michael Tennant felt his throat pinioned in a 
vice-like grip and then the calmness of Cleeve left him and 
the grip tightened. With diabolical hate stirring his whole 
being, he saw the veins knot on his enemy’s forehead; saw 
his face turn from scarlet to blue, saw, with frenzy in his 
eyes, the futile attempts which Tennant made to tear away 
that grip, and then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, 
Cleeve Barrington released his grip and, lifting up the al- 


236 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


most inanimate form of Michael Tennant, carried him to 
the door. 

Releasing his hold Cleeve saw, to his astonishment, 
Michael Tennant in the act of falling; he was not aware 
of the strength of that pressure which he had exerted on 
the man’s throat, and his left hand shot out quickly to 
regrip him before he fell, but the effort came too late. 
Tennant had fallen and then, before Cleeve could pick him 
up, he managed to regain his feet and stumbled out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


6 *1 SUPPOSE you’re very pleased with your meeting last 
1 night, Mr. Barrington!” 

Cleeve turned to face the speaker, whose smooth, cynical 
voice he had already recognised as that of Michael Tennant. 

‘‘I’ve no wish to discuss this matter with you, and I don’t 
intend to. I’m well aware of the underhand methods black¬ 
guards like you adopt!” 

“And I’m well aware of your methods.” 

“Hope you are; they’re effective, and that’s all I care 
about.” 

Tennant gave a derisive laugh. “The methods of a bully 
generally are, that is, at first. But might is not right, 
Cleeve Barrington, not even in Longfield. Bullies get their 
deserts in the end, and I’ll see you pay the uttermost farth¬ 
ing for treating me as you did.” 

“There were others who would have treated you more 
roughly if I had not interfered; I should have thought 
you’d have learnt that by now.” 

“There’s only one thing I’ve learnt, and that is, bullies 
don’t go for men of their own size. Oh yes, you can wince, 
Cleeve Barrington! But I’ve never heard of you laying 
your hands on a man your own size.” 

“For the simple reason, Tennant, that I’ve never found 
any other man my size, or less, who has such a low-down 
scheming mind as you. I don’t find them working in the 
dark and getting paid hirelings to interrupt political meet¬ 
ings. It’s only mean worms like you who do that sort of 
thing. Even the country’s interests are subordinated to 
your cowardly personal spite. But you came to the wrong 
place this time. Longfield likes fair play, and even paid 
hirelings sometimes have a sense of it, as you found to your 
cost. If you hadn’t deserved what you got they would 
never have deserted you as they did. Even in their half- 

237 


238 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


drunk state they saw your mean, dirty soul. Oh, yes, I 
know you filled them up with whisky and spouted to them 
in that low-class public house run by your friend, Heineman, 
an out and out Bolshevik.” 

Cleeve rode on, not at all satisfied with his part in the 
conversation. He somehow felt it lowered him to argue 
with such a man, lowered him almost as much as it lowered 
him to lay his hands on such a contemptible, scheming 
blackguard; and he felt an added sense of shame be¬ 
cause he had so often resolved that never again would he 
speak to or touch Michael Tennant, but somehow the 
minute he saw his cynical face or heard his taunting words 
that irrepressible, hot blood of his drove every good 
resolution from his mind. 

“Why can’t I keep cool like other men?” he said aloud. 

He reined in his horse at the cross roads. Should he go 
on to Hoston and see his supporters there, or take the right- 
hand turning to Marden? . . . But he did not decide the 
question, he was too agitated with what he considerd his 
weakness in letting Tennant draw him out again. 

“A damned fool, that’s what I am! Why can’t I 
restrain this temper of mine?” 

“It would be better for all of us if you could, Barring¬ 
ton!” 

Turning round in astonishment, he saw Col. Cartwright, 
but what caused him more surprise was the entire absence 
of that kindly welcome which Col. Cartwright usually 
accorded him. 

“We haven’t done with that scrap you had with Tennant. 
It wouldn’t surprise me if he took out a summons for 
assault. ’ ’ 

“I don’t care if he does.” 

“Well, I think it’s time you did, Barrington. It’s no 
use resorting to personal force, doesn’t do a candidate any 
good,” growled Col. Cartwright. 

“I’d do the same thing again; it’s no use saying I 
wouldn’t, Colonel; I lose control of myself whenever I 
set eyes on that blighter. It’s not the first time he’s 
played it low down, I can tell you!” 

“I have heard that he was your rival for a time.” There 
was a suspicion of superciliousness in Col. Cartwright’s 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


239 


voice which was quite unintentional. “But he hod the 
decency to leave you a free field as far as Mrs. du Barry 
was concerned as soon as he saw how the land lay.” 

“You will oblige me, Colonel, if you refrain from referring 
to Mrs. du Barry and that cad in the same breath.” 

Col. Cartwright’s anger began to rise; he had the Con¬ 
servative interests to consider, not only Cleeve’s, but he 
controlled it with an effort. 

“Look here, Barrington, you’ve got to subordinate your 
own interests to the cause. I was on my way to Longton 
Hall to talk this matter over quietly with you, not to 
quarrel. I want to tell you that we have had an emergency 
meeting of the committee and we all think you should 
apologise.” 

“That, Colonel, I’ll never do.” 

“Not for the sake of the cause, my boy?” 

“Not for the sake of any damned cause on God’s earth!” 

“Cleeve, don’t be impetuous; listen to me. At the time 
we all rather approved of what you did, but you must 
remember we were all more or less incensed at what we 
considered a hooligan outburst. You see, we’ve never had 
such scenes at Longfield before, but we must make allow¬ 
ances for the times. There’s a terrible lot of unemployment 
about; agricultural labourers are getting a mere pittance to 
live on. And when it was all over and we had cooled 
dow'n we weren’t quite so sure you’d done right. No 
offence, Cleeve, we all lost our tempers, we’re all in the 
same boat. But a summons for assault won’t do us any 
good, and for the sake of the cause we all think you 
should . . . well . . . not quite apologise, you know, 
but . . . er . . . send Tennant an expression of regret.” 

“Col. Cartwright, I’d rather stand down than do that. 
I’ve just met Tennant and I tell you it was all I could do 
to keep my hands off him again. Apologise to that cur? 
Never! Not if you pleaded on your hands and knees; nor 
is it necessary. I know the agricultural labourer as well 
as you do. He may be underpaid, he may be starving, 
but he plays the game. He can break up my meetings as 
much as he likes, and I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop him. 
Men do these things when they’re underpaid and underfed, 
and the political agitator fires their blood. But when they 


240 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


go to the poll they vote for their real friend. They know 
their real friend is my Guv’nor in these parts and they’ll 
vote for his rotter of a son! . . . Oh, yes, I know my own 
shortcoming,” Cleeve added hastily as Col. Cartwright 
showed signs of interrupting. “They know I can’t control 
my temper at times, but they’ll vote for me all the same, 
because they know that a Barrington with all his faults 
isn’t going to let them down in times like these. As for 
apologising to Michael Tennant, the Guv’nor would rather 
see me dead first if he knew everything.” 

“That’s all very well, Barrington, but this election’s 
going to be a near thing and you must carry the Conserva¬ 
tive Association with you. I’m afraid if you . . . er . . . 
I mean to say, if ... er ... we don’t express some sort 
of regret, they may turn you down yet; you see, I haven’t 
the same influence as Travers. I wish I had, and some of 
the members of the committee think you’re entirely in the 
wrong.” 

“Turn me down? No one will turn me down.” 

“No one wants to, really, but you’ve just said you’d 
rather stand down than apologise to Tennant.” 

“So I would with a committee behind me which was 
loyal to me and the cause; but when it’s divided in its 
opinion as to whether I did right or wrong I’ve finished 
with it. I’ll subscribe to the policy of party before politics, 
but not to party before right; nor will the country, nor 
will Longfield, and now you’ve told me all this I ’ll not stand 
down and I won’t apologise,—for I’ve no use for that 
effeminate expression of yours ‘regret,’—not for all the 
Conservative Associations on earth.” And having de¬ 
livered himself of this challenge Cleeve Barrington pressed 
his heels into his horse’s flanks and left Col. Cartwright, as 
he expressed it to himself “to chew the cud.” 

****** 

The next morning Cleeve Barrington was summoned by 
Elton to the library to meet Col. Cartwright again, who 
without waiting for any exchange of greetings handed 
Cleeve a copy of the London General News. 

“Read this, Barrington. It’s an awful blow. I told 
you yesterday we hadn’t heard the last of your scrap with 
Tennant, but you wouldn’t listen to me. You’ll see I was 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


241 


right after all; there was no need to take the law into your 
own hands, we’d soon have had enough police in the Hall to 
eject the interrupters, and then we’d have had the law on 
our side,” said Col. Cartwright with no little degree of 
vehemence. “As it is I’m afraid the Labour press will 
work that theory for all they’re worth,” he added, ppinting 
to the leading news column. 

Cleeve glanced at the glaring headlines. . . . 

MIGHT IS EIGHT IN LONGFIELD. 

VOTES BY FORCE! NOT ARGUMENT! 

DISORDERLY CONDUCT OF CONSERVATIVE 
CANDIDATE. 

EXPECTED SENSATIONAL DEVELOPMENTS. 

“In another column will be found particulars of a scene 
which will be as nauseating to lovers of fair play as it will 
be to those who have supported Mr. Cleeve Barrington’s 
candidature for the Longfield division of Buckinghamshire. 
It is not often we have to chronicle a case of actual assault 
at a public meeting, and never in our recollection has 
it fallen to our lot to publish details of one which reflects 
such little credit on the principal actor. No one more 
strongly deprecates the rowdy element which makes itself 
heard when general elections are on the tapis than our¬ 
selves. It is an element which we have never hesitated 
to denounce, but human nature being what it is, some 
allowances must be made for the high feelings which are 
aroused on these occasions. The Englishman, that is, the 
patriotic Englishman, takes the Government of his country 
very seriously; he is not a milk and water individual who 
turns with every wind that blows, and a candidate must 
expect the partisans of all political creeds to advocate in 
public meetings the views they represent with as much 
fervour as the candidate advocates his own. As long as 
these views are expressed in language befitting the occasion 
no objection can possibly be taken to them. Heckling 
plays a recognised part in all elections; but should heckling 
amount to obstruction, the arm of the law can be evoked 
to suppress it. This is the proper course to follow and the 
only one. 


242 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“The facts as far as the Longfield meeting is con¬ 
cerned make painful reading. It would appear from our 
correspondent’s telegraphic summary that a small band of 
ardent Socialists waved a few red flags and behaved more 
or less like exuberant schoolboys—a pardonable lapse in 
these times—but Mr. Cleeve Barrington, the Conservative 
candidate, far from showing that small degree of patience 
which would have enabled the common sense of the meeting 
to reassert itself, deliberately left the platform and assaulted 
Mr. Michael Tennant, a strong supporter of the Labour 
movement, in view of the whole meeting. Had Mr. Cleeve 
Barrington, who is a big, powerful man standing over six 
feet and an adept at what we are now tempted to call 
the ignoble art of the bully, contented himself with more 
than half throttling a man scarcely half his size, that in 
itself would have been contemptible enough, but such an 
act was apparently not enough for this ‘Lord of the 
Stables.’ He must needs advance the art of bullying a 
stage further, and deal his half-conscious victim a vicious 
blow just as Mr. Tennant was blindly stumbling out of the 
Town Hall. It is to the suddenness and viciousness of the 
attack that our correspondent ascribes the immunity which 
Mr. Barrington obtained from the meeting, otherwise we 
are at a loss to account for the tranquillity in which this 
cowardly assault was committed. 

“Every honest Englishman has nothing but loathing and 
contempt for a bully, and it affords us no little satisfaction 
to be able to inform our readers that the bully, in this 
instance, is likely to reap a speedy retribution. We under¬ 
stand -that this hero-of-a-candidate is engaged to a Mrs. du 
Barry, a girl of charming personality, great beauty and a 
lover of fair play, and if we are credibly informed the 
marriage has been fixed to take place on the day of polling. 
We shall be very much interested to hear what she thinks 
of the conduct of her bridegroom-elect. She may remain 
silent, but we think not; for Mr. Tennant intends to take 
out a summons against this trampler on English liberties, 
and, if we are credibly informed, one of the leading K.C.’s 
in London is to be briefed on his behalf. Sensational de¬ 
velopments are expected. 

“There is a strong rumour that there is a certain glass 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


243 


house at Becclesfield where Mr. Cleeve Barrington has 
lately been staying, and we should not be surprised if in 
the course of the next few days the whole of Longfield is 
agog over a scandal which is likely to be as sensational as 
any scandal which has ever been threshed out in a court 
of law.” 

“What d’you say to that, Barrington?” asked Col. Cart¬ 
wright with a lugubrious expression of countenance. 

“Well, as far as the meeting is concerned it’s an absolute 
distortion of facts.” 

“It may be, Mr. Barrington.” The formality of his 
address was significant. “But you can’t import the at¬ 
mosphere of that meeting into a police court. What might 
appear very right and proper at a heated political meeting 
will appear in a very different light in the cold, unromantic 
legal atmosphere of the court. It wouldn’t surprise me 
if the case is tried by the two Liberal and one Labour J. P. ’s, 
for if Tennant has any sense he’ll call all the Conservative 
J.P.’s who were on the platform at your meeting as 
witnesses.” 

“Well, there’s nothing for it, Colonel, but to see it 
through.” 

“But what’s this other scandal they hint at?” 

“I prefer to say nothing at the moment.” 

“Is there any truth in it?” 

“I can’t say anything at present. When is the case to 
be heard?” 

“We’ve fixed it for next Tuesday. As chairman of the 
Bench I thought it desirable that the case should be disposed 
of before next Friday.” 

“Why Friday?” 

Col. Cartwright began to stammer a reply, but Cleeve cut 
him short. 

“Oh, I remember now, it’s nomination day, isn’t it? . . . 
I see what you’re driving at.” 

“Well, Barrington, you know we’ve got our cause to 
consider.” 

“Yes, yes, I quite understand, do what you think is 
expedient, and let right take care of itself,” said Cleeve 
provocatively. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


‘‘\A7 HAT’S up, Guy ’nor ?” asked Cleeve, on re-entering 
* * the library a few hours later. He had been out all 
the morning visiting a distant committee-room and was 
astonished to see his father pacing the room in an agitated 
manner holding a copy of the London General News in his 
hand. 

“My dear boy, what's all this about?” said his father, 
pointing to the article which Col. Cartwright had already 
shown Cleeve. 

“Oh, I chucked Michael Tennant out of the meeting the 
other night, that’s all. I didn’t tell you before because I 
thought it would upset you, but you can take it from me he 
jolly well deserved it.” 

“Cleeve, don’t try to throw sand in my eyes! You know 
very well what I’m driving at; it’s the scandal. You don’t 
realise what you’ve done.” 

Col. Barrington began to search through a heap of cor¬ 
respondence on the table and finished without finding 
what he was looking for. 

“Damn it! Where can I have put that telegram?” 

He commenced to go through the heap again, throwing 
the letters into the utmost disorder as he did so. 

“What are you looking for? Can I help you?” 

“It’s a telegram, Cleeve. Well, I’m damned if I know 
what I’ve done with it! Where was I standing when 
Yvonne gave it to me? Let me see. ...” 

“What is it about?” 

“I want you to read it; it’s about Yvonne.” 

“Yvonne!” Cleeve’s face paled. “What about her?” 

“I want you to read it,” replied Col. Barrington ob¬ 
stinately. “Can’t collect my wits. What’s the good of 
standing about doing nothing, can’t you help me to find the 
damned thing?” 

244 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


245 


“ Really, Guv’nor, you must calm yourself. I don’t 
think there’ll be any scandal, if that’s what’s worrying 
you. That chap Tennant’s a dirty, mean dog and he won’t 
fight. He’s only put that in the paper to try and browbeat 
me, but when he sees I mean to go through with it, he’ll 
sneak off like the cur he is.” 

Col. Barrington was not listening; his eyes had fallen on 
a ball of crumpled pink paper lying on the hearth and, 
swooping down on it, he picked it up and handed it to his 
son. 

“Read that,” he said agitatedly. 

Cleeve felt his heart thumping against his chest. Some¬ 
thing told him his assurances were idle words. The scandal 
already seemed to take a concrete form. That ball of 
crumpled paper loomed large in his mental vision. It 
looked like a bomb that was ready to burst and scatter his 
dreams, and the very thought filled him with nervous appre¬ 
hension. Slowly and deliberately he unfolded it, placed it 
on the table and smoothed out the creases before he at¬ 
tempted to read. Then he picked it up and walked over 
to the window, turned his back to the light and began to 
read. It was addressed to Mrs. du Barry. . . . 

“Inform Cleeve marriage cannot possibly take place. 
Have written Col. Barrington. Return at once. My decision 
final. Let Cleeve know there can be no interviews.” 

He read and re-read the telegram, hardly believing his 
eyes and then in a strained voice he demanded: “Where is 
she? I must see her at once!” 

“She’s gone.” 

“Gone!” Cleeve repeated the word in a dull mechanical 
voice. 

“Yes, she left about half an hour ago, after seeing this 
article in the London General News 

“That article! Why on earth did you show it to her? 
Couldn’t you wait until you had consulted me? Do you 
think it’s fair?” he demanded with added bitterness. 

“I didn’t show it to her, Cleeve.” There was reproach 
in Col. Barrington’s voice as he quietly faced his son. 
“She received the paper this morning with that scurrilous 


246 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


article outlined in blue pencil. She showed it to me when 
she handed me the telegram.” 

4 ‘Well, I'm going to Becclesfield.” 

“Oh, don’t do anything rash, Cleeve!” 

There was a knock at the door, and Elton entered with a 
letter, bearing the Becclesfield postmark, which had just 
come in by the afternoon’s post. 

Father and son were standing side by side, Cleeve, being 
nearest the door, took the letter from the tray. 

“No, Cleeve, the letter is for me. It’s from Mr. du 
Barry, he and I used to be great friends and there may be 
things in it he wouldn’t want you to see.” Cleeve passed 
the letter to his father, who walked away a few paces and 
read the letter in silence. Then, before Cleeve could utter 
a word of protest, he had torn it into fragments and thrown 
it on the fire. 

“I’m afraid, my boy, there’s nothing to be done. I 
referred a few minutes ago to the scandal hinted at in that 
paper and I tell you that behind that threat lies a very 
concrete case. I knew of the mystery about Yvonne before 
she was born, and in that letter Mr. du Barry tells me that 
Michael Tennant knows of it too. He has been to Beccles¬ 
field and made certain proposals to Mr. du Barry. He will 
withdraw the case at a price, the price of his marriage to 
Yvonne, and if it doesn’t take place he threatens to have the 
whole scandal probed into by the court. Mr. du Barry says 
Tennant is absolutely determined about it. Meanwhile 
the matter remains, so to speak, sub judice until Yvonne 
reaches Becclesfield, when he hopes to write again.” 

“I’m going to Becclesfield, father, I must!” 

“How can you? Do listen to me. In the first place 
it’s no use your going.” He spoke very quietly for in¬ 
somuch as Cleeve’s impetuous nature was aroused, the 
Colonel’s became calm but alert. He scented that any 
undue haste and recklessness on his son’s part would only 
tend to further complications; and the imperative necessity 
of preventing Cleeve going to Becclesfield had banished for 
the moment the blow which his pride had received as a 
result of Col. Cartwright’s hint that another candidate 
might have to be found. 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


247 


‘‘Not a bit of use your going/’ he continued. “Mr. 
du Barry has made it quite clear in his letter that he 
would regard an attempt on your part to force an interview 
as an unwarrantable intrusion at this stage, and you’d find 
the door closed against you.” 

“Do you think that would stop me?” 

“I know it wouldn’t, but your commonsense will. You 
don’t know Mr. du Barry, I do. Just before Yvonne was 
born he disappeared from society without leaving a trace 
of his whereabouts.” 

Cleeve had shown signs of paying little attention to his 
father’s words, but the latter remark impressed him. 

“And, Cleeve, he would take Yvonne with him this time. 
The girl loves you, but rush your fences and you fall. 
Your ties on Yvonne are silken threads compared to the 
ropes which bind an only daughter to her father after so 
many years of affection and daily intercourse.” 

“You don’t know Yvonne; you insult her and you be¬ 
little me! ’ ’ 

“I do nothing of the sort. I’ve no doubt that you two, 
when, and if, you come together ... I can’t help saying 
if . . . will strengthen the ties until they hold like steel 
chains, but for the moment you can be sure that Mr. du 
Barry has the greater influence. You cannot break the 
influence of a lifetime in a few weeks, and, moreover, Mr. du 
Barry has a certain hold over her which I am not at liberty 
to discuss. Rush your fences and you’ll find Mr. du Barry 
will spirit himself away and take Yvonne with him. Be¬ 
sides, Cleeve,” he added quickly, desirous of taking advan¬ 
tage of the hesitation which Cleeve evinced, “you can’t 
desert your post here. It would be rank disloyalty to the 
Party which has so far given you its confidence.” 

“Gave!” 

“No, Cleeve, it still does, and it’s your duty to stick to 
your post. And another thing, Yvonne told me she hoped to 
write to you to-night, and isn’t it better to wait here quietly 
for that letter instead of rushing off to Becclesfield? . . . 
You can’t do it, Cleeve, not after that reference to the glass 
house. Everyone will know where you’ve gone, for you’re 
more or less a public man now, and it wouldn’t be doing 


248 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Yvonne any good to take a step which would give people’s 
tongues more cause for gossip.” 

“I’m going!” Cleeve declared obstinately. 

“Well, here’s a letter for you from Yvonne. She wrote 
it after I’d done my best to persuade her to stay until 
your return.” 

With nervous twitching fingers Cleeve tore open the 
letter. . . . 

My own dear Cleeve, 

I’m just heartbroken to leave you without saying goodbye, for 
there’s only a few minutes to catch the train. Something terrible 
has happened, but I’ll try to write you to-night. Whatever happens 
remember I’m yours, and I’ll never, never marry anyone else. 

Your heartbroken, 

Yvonne. 

P.S.—With your father’s permission I’m taking Miss Ellis with 
me; he thinks it better for you to have a man secretary after all. 

Cleeve read the letter, hastily thrust it into his breast 
pocket, and in a calm voice repeated: “I’m going.” 

“But you can’t get to Becclesfield to-night.” 

“Oh, yes, I can ... I’ll motor there !” 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


6 6 T>M SO glad you’ve come, Cleeve. Now, sit down, I’ve 
* a lot to talk to you about. . . . Whatever have you 
been doing?” 

“I’ve been to Becclesfield.” 

“Yes, I know. That’s why I asked you to come.” 

“Who told you?” 

“Well, I partly guessed. You see, everyone knows 
you’ve been away,” said Mrs. de Haviland. “And so,” 
she continued, “I put two and two together. I think it 
was very foolish of you. Why didn’t you come and see 
me first? But even if I hadn’t guessed I suppose you 
realise that everything you do gets into the papers? Look 
at this.” She rose from her chair and, going over to the 
writing-table, took therefrom the current copy of the 
London General News and handed it to Cleeve. Once again 
the big headlines caught his eye. . . . 

THE GLASS HOUSE AT BECCLESFIELD. 

IS OUR PROPHECY COMING TRUE? 
CONSERVATIVE CANDIDATE LEAVES HIS POST. 

Our correspondent at Becclesfield wires : “Mr. Cleeve 
Barrington, the Conservative candidate for the Longfield 
division of Buckinghamshire, arrived here in the early hours 
of yesterday morning, having travelled by motor car during 
the night, and is staying for the time being at the ‘ George 
Hotel. ’ I called on him about breakfast-time and asked 
him if he could give me any information with regard to the 
case which Mr. Michael Tennant is bringing in the Longfield 
police court; if there was any truth in the report that it 
would be productive of sensational developments, and if he 
were so sure of his success at the poll that he could afford 
to leave the constituency at such a time. His gentlemanly 

249 


250 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


reply was to tell me to ‘Go to the devil/ Having no wish 
to expedite my introduction to his Satanic Majesty, I 
thought it wiser to terminate the interview, and later hired 
a car and journeyed to Mill House. I found Mr. Barrington 
who had evidently preceded me, engaged in a heated con¬ 
versation with the gatekeeper. The latter was trying to 
convince Mr. Barrington that he was a truthful man. Mr. 
Barrington, apparently, was not prepared to admit this, 
for an assurance that the family had made a hurried de¬ 
parture fell on deaf ears, and it was not until he had 
forced his way into the privacy of the grounds and found 
the house bolted and shuttered and in charge of a foreign- 
looking major-domo that he was convinced of the fact that 
he would have saved himself much physical effort and 
mental strain, to say nothing of what may be termed 
‘sporting expletives/ if he had taken the old gatekeeper’s 
word for it. 

“I ventured to ask the gatekeeper if his amour 
propre had not been outraged by this scion of aristocracy, 
but I don’t think he understood the remark. He only 
grinned from ear to ear and showed me a treasury note, 
which he assured me had been thrust into his hand. 

“I found in Becclesfield as much interest being taken in 
the coming trial as is the case at Longfield, and considerable 
astonishment that the du Barrys have left suddenly for an 
unknowh destination. The gossip in the town itself is 
entertaining, some assert that Mrs. du Barry has a lunatic 
husband, others that she was never married, while others 
again, equally confident, affirm that Yvonne du Barry is 
old Mr. du Barry’s wife, and not his daughter, as previously 
reported. Mr. Michael Tennant leaves for Longfield this 
afternoon. He tells me his enquiries are complete, and one 
of the most honoured names in Longfield will be involved 
in the washing of the soiled linen which must unfortu¬ 
nately, but necessarily, take place at the coming trial. 
‘To what name does Mr. Tennant refer?’ and ‘Is the 
person who bears that name a man or woman?’ . . . These 
are the questions which I should like to be in a position to 
answer. But Mr. Tennant refuses to say any more at pres¬ 
ent, and so I suppose we must be content to leave to the 
day of the trial the revelations thereof.” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


251 


“What a damned confounded rag! I never thought that 
even a Labour paper could descend so low as not to pay 
some attention to the rules of the game!” 

“Am I intruding, Mrs. de Haviland?” 

“Not at all, Col. Cartwright. I’m glad you’ve come; 
I was just showing Mr. Barrington this morning’s London 
General News. He’s just come back from Becclesfield.” 

“And I was saying ...” 

“Yes, I heard you, Mr. Barrington,” interrupted Col. 
Cartwright. “Really, this trial’s getting on my nerves; I 
shall be glad when it’s over. But the Labour Party’s not 
the only Party that have members who can’t play the game. 
The Rev. Mr. Ryder has just written to say he cannot ap¬ 
pear on our platform any longer.” 

“Ahem! . . . Am I intruding, Mrs. de Haviland?” 

“Not at all, Mr. Ryder. We were just speaking about 
you. That is . . .” 

“I was speaking about you,” interposed Col. Cartwright. 
“Fact of the matter is I’ve only just received your letter, 
and what with the trial and people like yourself, Mr. Ryder, 
leaving the ship I’m afraid I’m a little out of patience with 
everybody. I didn’t mean any offence,” he added hur¬ 
riedly; “a rather forcible way, perhaps, of expressing my 
dissatisfaction with your action in leaving us, so to speak, 
when the case is sub judice , but I meant nothing more than 
to express my disapproval.” 

“I would like to accept your word for that, sir, but there 
is a great deal of difference between expressing dissatisfac¬ 
tion and the charge of not playing the game. The latter 
suggests something underhand and is a most unwarrantable 
suggestion as far as I am concerned,” said the Rev. Mr. 
Ryder with some heat. “You will excuse my vehemence, 
Mrs. de Haviland, but I have my frock to protect. I wrote 
you, Colonel, very fully, giving the reasons for my decision. 
Am I to understand that those reasons carry no weight with 
you?” 

“Mr. Ryder, I shall be very sorry if any words of mine 
spoken in the heat of the moment should be responsible for 
a somewhat distasteful discussion in Mrs. de Haviland’s 
presence. There are two sides to every question, and I’d 
like to present mine, if you will allow me, later on.” 


252 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Mrs. de Haviland made a slight movement, which was 
responsible for the eyes of the company being instantly 
turned in her direction. 

“I should not like any friends of mine to leave my house 
less friendly disposed towards one another than when they 
came, and I think Col. Cartwright wouldn’t have mentioned 
anything about playing the game if the words had not, so 
to speak, been put into his mouth.” There was a quiet but 
commanding dignity in Mrs. de Haviland’s bearing. She 
was looking steadfastly at Mr. Ryder as she spoke, for she 
realised the deep sense of injury which was responsible for 
his indignation and the imperative necessity of allaying it 
at once. “For Cleeve Barrington’s sake it must be done,” 
she said to herself, and instinctively she knew it could only 
be done by encouraging Mr. Ryder to talk. . . . “Talking,” 
she always told herself, “is woman’s prerogative in a calm 
atmosphere, but man’s safety valve in a storm,” and she 
was well aware of the dangerous and permanent nature of 
pent-up anger. 

“I think I’ll come and sit by you, Colonel.” Mrs. de 
Haviland rose from her chair to join him on the chesterfield, 
for she also knew the sobering effect such a manoeuvre 
would have on Col. Cartwright; she, however, continued 
speaking as she rose. “I had just shown Mr. Barrington 
an article in the London General News and he rather put 
the expression into Col. Cartwright’s mouth.” 

“I don’t quite understand.” There was a note of per¬ 
plexity in Mr. Ryder’s voice, for which Mrs. de Haviland 
gave a hardly noticeable sigh of relief. “My strategy is 
succeeding,” she said to herself, “for nothing so under¬ 
mines anger or indignation as a change of objective.” 

“It was really Mr. Barrington who first spoke of not 
playing the game.” And as she finished this sentence Mrs. 
de Haviland noticed with alarm that Mr. Ryder’s indig¬ 
nation had changed to anger, his whole countenance bore 
evidence of it as he glared at Cleeve. Then soft and sooth¬ 
ing came the words: “You see, Mr. Ryder, we’ve not seen 
your letter yet.” 

Mr. Ryder suffered another check. Was it just to be 
angry with one who did not know the reasons for his de- 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


253 


cision? And almost before he was aware of it he found 
himself explaining those reasons. 

“Then I must tell you. ... As you all know, I have 
never taken any active part in politics, my sympathies are, 
and always have been, on the side of law and order—only 
other words for civilisation and discipline. The absence 
of discipline in Labour polities appals me. I may be 
wrong, but I hold firmly to the opinion that the extreme 
Labour creed is an open invitation to the youths of this 
country to throw off the harness of restraint. It is an allur¬ 
ing proposition and is as welcome to youths as an invitation 
would be to a young ox to throw off its yoke and roam the 
world. It is the doctrine of might being right in another 
form, and until Labour occupies a position of greater re¬ 
sponsibility and lesser freedom my inclinations are to fight 
it tooth and nail. Untrammelled by circumstances, I should 
throw in my lot with the Liberal Party, but it is a house 
divided against itself. I realise that I must be as subserv¬ 
ient to discipline and duty as the flock in my charge, and a 
Party like the Liberal Party without discipline has for the 
moment ceased to appeal. It was my sense of duty and dis¬ 
cipline which prompted me to give open support to Mr. Bar¬ 
rington and the Conservative cause. Moreover, he was en¬ 
gaged to my daughter, and the possibility that some of my 
parishioners might ascribe a sinister motive to the breaking 
off of the engagement, determined me, as an act of justice, 
to combat such a possibility in the only way I could—by 
appearing side by side with Mr. Barrington on the platform. 
I have, however, my flock to consider, and as I told Col. 
Cartwright, the contents of a letter which I have been 
shown have created in my mind considerable doubt as to 
the wisdom of my previous decision, and, in the circum¬ 
stances, I begged Col. Cartwright to excuse my reluctance 
to give Mr. Barrington my active support, at any rate for 
the present. Is there any failure on my part to play the 
game when my conscience raises real doubt ?” 

Mr. Ryder’s indignation had seemingly disappeared, but 
a little resentment still remained, and more in sorrow than 
in anger he looked at Cleeve as he finished speaking, as 
though, in spite of strong evidence to the contrary, he was 
prepared to preserve an open mind. 


254 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“My remarks about playing the game were not in refer¬ 
ence to any action of yours, sir. They were directed against 
this scurrilous article,” said Cleeve, directing attention to 
the newspaper in his hand, “but I feel as Colonel Cart¬ 
wright feels, that the withdrawal of your support, of which 
I’ve only just heard, is a serious blow. I appreciate your 
position as a clergyman, but is it right or proper to prejudge 
the result of the trial?” 

“Mr. Barrington, I am not in the habit of prejudging 
anyone.” 

“But you have prejudged me.” 

“Are you aware, sir, that your own gamekeeper is going 
to give evidence against you?” 

“Bilton give evidence against me?” 

“Yes! It was not until I had had a talk with Bilton 
that I decided to write my letter.” 

“Bilton give evidence against me?” Cleeve repeated 
dazedly. “Why, he wasn’t at the meeting!” 

“What happened at the meeting has not influenced me, 
it is the motive, if any, which lies behind your actions, Mr. 
Barrington.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I think, sir, I may be permitted to ask you a question. 

. . Has your engagement to Mrs. du Barry been broken 
off?” 

“What’s that got to do with you?” Cleeve demanded 
angrily. 

“Only this, Mr. Barrington. . . . That if there’s any 
truth in the rumour that Mrs. du Barry has broken off 
the engagement, and,” Mr. Ryder paused impressively and 
then continued in a deliberate voice, “if it is true that she 
has given you no reason for breaking it off, does it not 
strike you that I am not the only one who can be accused 
of prejudgment?” 

Cleeve had no immediate reply, he was too dumbfounded. 
Mr. Ryder’s words had set him thinking hard. Was there 
some reason other than what he thought for the broken 
engagement? The promised letter from Yvonne had never 
arrived; that, in itself, was very significant; and now he 
recalled that the reason for her taking Miss Ellis away, 
“so that he could have a man secretary,” appeared in- 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


255 


adequate. What had Bilton against him? For nothing 
less than a strong resentment could account for such a faith¬ 
ful servant turning traitor. That he had turned traitor 
Mr. Ryder’s words left no doubt. What had caused it? 
He could think of nothing he had said or done which might 
help to solve the riddle, and slowly, like one awakening 
from sleep, the full significance of those articles in the 
London General News dawned upon him. There was behind 
the barely veiled words some terrible scandal. A scandal 
which, in Cleeve’s present state of complete ignorance, he 
somehow sensed could not possibly be mentally exaggerated 
beyond the boundaries of reality. He had been a fool to 
accept Mr. du Barry’s condition that he should in no way 
attempt to ascertain the reasons which had originally stood 
in the way of his engagement, and now he was left to 
grapple alone and in open court with a scandal of which he 
was utterly ignorant. Then like a flash the stupefying 
effect of these thoughts vanished and his alertness of mind 
returned. Why should he remain in entire ignorance when 
Mr. Ryder knew something? 

“Mr. Ryder, I will not have aspersions cast on Mrs. du 
Barry! Your insinuation that she has prejudged me is an 
abominable insult, and I would ask you to withdraw that 
remark.” 

“Quietly, my young friend, quietly! I made no asper¬ 
sion about her. I brought her name into the conversation 
because if you love her,” there was the slightest suspicion 
of contemptuous disdain in his voice as he uttered the word 
‘love,’ “and have as high an opinion of her character as 
I now have, I thought you yourself would only too readily 
exonerate her of any charge of the kind, and in so much 
you might be persuaded by her example to exonerate me.” 

“You mean that an ordinary petty police court case of 
assault is a sufficient cause, in your eyes, to come here and 
give vent to insulting insinuations?” 

“I made no insulting insinuations.” 

“I beg your pardon! You have talked about protecting 
your frock, you have also ...” 

“Not from a petty police court case of assault,” inter¬ 
rupted Mr. Ryder with rising indignation. “Oh, no, Mr. 
Barrington, I am not as narrow-minded as that. I am 


256 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


protecting my frock from contact with a common sordid 
scandal which I have good reason to believe is the raison 
d’etre for the case itself.” 

“Mr. Ryder, will you kindly leave my house!” It was 
Mrs. de Haviland speaking. No one had noticed her agita¬ 
tion as the conversation developed, but they noticed it now. 
Drawing herself up to her full height, she advanced with 
quiet stately steps to confront the last speaker. But the 
agitation she was experiencing was only shown in the 
rigidity of her arms, the voice itself was quiet and firm. 
Her usually quiet, laughing eyes were hawk-like with a 
pride which seemed to relegate almost to insignificance the 
offending clergyman who faced her with a bewildered ex¬ 
pression, an expression somewhat indicative of the loss of 
mental balance which her commanding words and presence 
had occasioned. Then, as if the fates had intended to add 
to the tenseness of that electrified atmosphere, in burst Col. 
Barrington. 

“Cleeve, read that letter! What does it mean?” he de¬ 
manded in the same breath. . . . “No, sir . . . no, Cleeve, 
read it aloud! True or untrue, I want everyone to know 
its contents!” 

With the intention of refusing his father’s request 
Cleeve’s eyes travelled from the letter in his hand to his 
father’s face. He had gleaned nothing of the contents of 
the letter in the hasty scrutiny he had given it, but his 
father’s words stimulated his brain, he realised that behind 
the charge of assault, and in some way connected with it, 
was another and more sinister accusation against himself. 
. . . “True or untrue I want everyone to know its con¬ 
tents.” How well he understood the meaning and inten¬ 
tion of the words. The letter in his hand contained some 
damning accusation. It was of a nature which had carried 
semi-conviction as far as his father was concerned; and the 
inherent sense of justice of the Barringtons demanded that 
all should know the charge so that the lie, if it were a lie, 
of the vile scoundrel at the back of it should be known to 
everyone ... or the truth, if it were the truth, be known 
to the world. But behind it lay another intention, and it 
was the knowledge of that which really stirred Cleeve’s 
being. The intention to make it clear there and then and 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


257 


in that assembly that, if true, Col. Barrington had called 
his son “Cleeve” for the last time. 

As he looked at his father’s drawn and haggard face an 
overwhelming desire seized him to throw his arms round 
his neck as he used to do when a child, but with this differ¬ 
ence, that the influence behind the desire was a wish to 
protect and not claim protection. His father had suddenly 
become an old man, the fire in those blue eyes was replaced 
by a childlike appeal for comfort. Had anyone else spoken 
those words, so eloquent of doubt, Cleeve Barrington would 
have turned on his heel and been done with him for good 
and all; but with his father it was different, different in 
spite of a feeling that had his father been similiarly placed 
he, Cleeve, would never have asked him to read aloud the 
accusing letter, because he, Col. Barrington’s son, would 
have instinctively known the accusation was a lie. It was 
the feeling that he was doubted that caused the flush on his 
cheeks as he obeyed his father’s demand and read aloud in 
firm clear tones. 

Dear Sir, 

After the many years of kindness you have shown to me and 
my family, I am sorry to leave your service without giving the 
usual notice. I don’t know how to tell a gentleman like you that 
your son destroyed my girl. I intend no insult, sir, I am only 
telling you the truth, and may God serve him as he served my poor 
girl. I have seen her last letter and it is God’s truth. Please, sir, 
I intend no insult to you and your good lady, but Mr. Ryder told 
me I must write, and I don’t think it would be honest to hide the 
truth. 

Yours always respectfully, sir, 

J. Bilton. 

P.S.—If I have used too strong language, sir, please excuse your 
old servant, but if I had not seen my girl’s letter written in her 
own hand I should not have believed it about him. 

In an atmosphere of hushed silence Cleeve finished read¬ 
ing the letter. 

“It’s not true, Cleeve, is it?” 

“I think, father,” said Cleeve deliberately, looking at 
Mr. Ryder as he spoke, “I’m not called on to say whether 
it is the truth or a lie. You . . . ”—he gave a sweep of his 
hand as though to include all present—“know me.” 


258 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


For a few moments not a word was spoken, then Mr. 
Ryder, who had misread that flush on Cleeve’s face, left 
the room, followed by Col. Cartwright, now also full of 
doubt. 

And when they had gone it fell to Mrs. de Haviland to 
break the heavy silence which had descended on the trio. 
She just drew down Cleeve’s proud face and gave him a 
kiss which held in it a wealth of motherly affection. 


CHAPTER XL 


i i 'T'HE case appears on the list as a simple case of as- 
* sault. ’’ 

As counsel for the prosecution uttered these words in an 
impassioned voice the droning sounds of the court died 
away, as the moaning of the sea dies away when we close 
a window and bolt its shutters, leaving a silence so con¬ 
spicuous that the words, almost inaudible at first, seemed 
by contrast to gather strength till they reverberated 
through the small court room. 

“And,” continued counsel, “my client, Mr. Michael Ten¬ 
nant, has shown very great forbearance in steadfastly re¬ 
fusing to enhance the gravity of the charge; for it will 
transpire, in the course of the evidence which it will be my 
duty to produce, that, had Mr. Tennant so desired, he might 
have had the case heard before a higher tribunal, where a 
sentence could be imposed more in keeping with the vicious¬ 
ness of the assault than it is competent for this court to 
inflict.” 

“I submit that my learned friend is not entitled to make 
such statements in his pleadings,” interposed Sir Edmund 
Jervis vehemently. “To dilate upon what sentence another 
court might or might not impose is as irrelevant to the point 
at issue as to expatiate on what might or might not have 
happened if the assault had taken place in Timbuctoo!” 

“I am extremely obliged for my learned friend’s ad¬ 
mission.” The suave, sarcastic tones of Sir John Simpson, 
whose staunch adherence to the Labour cause was prover¬ 
bial, rang clear on every ear. “But the assault did not 
take place in Timbuctoo, it took place in this town, and I 
am here not only to prove the assault, but to earn the sym¬ 
pathy of the bench.” 

“The sympathy of the bench has nothing to do with it,” 
Jervis retorted irritatingly. 

259 


260 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“I am surprised at my learned friend’s attitude.” The 
suave, impassioned voice was speaking again. “And I sub¬ 
mit I am entitled to plead for the sympathy of the bench 
on behalf of my client, for without that sympathy a decision 
of the court in my client’s favour would be a mockery! A 
travesty of justice! I want an expression from this court 
that-” 

“And I submit that sympathy is quite outside any legiti¬ 
mate pleadings in this case,” interpolated Jervis in a chal¬ 
lenging voice. 

* ‘ I would ask your worships ’ ruling on this point. These 
constant interruptions from my learned friend are most 
disconcerting.” The suavity of the voice was not so notice¬ 
able and the end of the last sentence was somewhat snappily 
hurled out. 

Col. Cartwright, chairman of the bench, could be seen 
holding a whispered conversation with his colleagues as 
counsel for the prosecution stood steadfastly gazing in his 
direction with an injured expression on his countenance, 
an expression calulated to appeal to any Englishman’s love 
of fair play. Sir Edmund was also on his feet. 

“This is a court of justice, not sympathy!” The note 
of challenge was still in his voice. “And I submit my 
learned friend is not entitled to-” 

“We have decided to hear you, Sir John.” 

This breeze had roused the interest of the crowded court. 
The sporting instincts of the countrymen were incited at 
such a beginning; it foreshadowed a keen fight. The par¬ 
tisans of Cleeve Barrington drew inspiration from Sir 
Edmund’s vehement opposition. His attitude appealed to 
them, he was not going to take things lying down. They 
felt that he would break through that scurrilous scandal 
which had been hinted at in the papers and lift the fog with 
which lying tongues and subtle insinuations had enveloped 
the issue. And as staunch Conservatives they argued that 
the Labour Party were not going to have things their own 
way. 

But the decision of the chairman somewhat damped their 
feelings. Labour had won the first round of the fight; was 
it to be prophetic of the issue? And without knowing the 
whys and the wherefores they somehow sensed the impor- 




AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


261 


tance of the decision. It was to he sensed in Sir John’s 
look of triumph, in Sir Edmund’s disappointed-looking, 
serious countenance as he resumed his seat. The Labour 
element was frankly delighted. 

“I was about to say when my learned friend thought fit 
to interrupt me that had we liked, had we been vindictive 
we could have carried this case to a higher court and put 
Mr. Barrington on his trial at the Assizes for causing 
grievous bodily hurt.” 

“Are you going to call evidence on that point? Because 
if not I submit-” 

“My learned friend need have no qualms on that score, 
for we intend to call Dr. Mornington, the family doctor of 
the Barringtons.” 

Sir John paused to bestow a benign smile on his rival. 
“Since the night of the assault Mr. Tennant has practically 
absented himself from this constituency. There is good 
reason for this; he has lost the sight of one of his eyes!” 

At this unexpected announcement the spectators in the 
court stirred, craned their necks, scanned the faces round 
the solicitors’ table, and, for the first time, became aware of 
Michael Tennant’s absence. 

Sir John paused again as if to heighten the dramatic 
effect of this announcement, but in reality he was concen¬ 
trating for even more dramatic statements. 

“When I put my client in the box his disfigurement will, 
I have no doubt, appal your worships, but what is more 
appalling is the motive which lay behind the assault. My 
learned friend opposed my initial efforts to elicit for my 
client the sympathy to which he is entitled. I am now 
going to give him further cause for objection in an en¬ 
deavour to deprive him of any sympathy for the cause he 
advocates; for Mr. Tennant, notwithstanding the permanent 
disfigurement which he has suffered at Barrington’s hands, 
acted in an unbelievably generous manner. He did some¬ 
thing which not one man in a thousand would do,—nay, not 
one in ten thousand for the matter of that. He wrote with 
his own hand, with the physical and mental pain of his 
injured eyesight still upon him, offering to drop these pro¬ 
ceedings, if Barrington would write him an apology, only 



262 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


to get the answer, scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper 
‘I’ll see you in hell first.’ ” 

It was significant of the indignation which Sir John’s 
words had produced that not a titter, not a murmur was 
heard in the court. 

In the silence which followed this dramatic opening the 
rustle of Sir Edmund’s silk gown could be clearly heard as 
he leant across the table for a whispered conversation with 
Cleeve Barrington, whose white, drawn face spoke more 
eloquently than words, while his hands clenched and twisted 
as he gave an affirmative nod. 

And then before the spellbound court was aware of it 
Sir Edmund was on his feet. 

“Your worships, my learned friend has in the course of 
his opening speech referred to matters which were quite 
outside my knowledge, and I crave a short adjournment for 
the purpose of deciding on our future course.” 

The attempt to suppress the cheers, which broke out 
simultaneously from all sides of the court, was a half¬ 
hearted one. Bench and spectators guessed the meaning 
of this request,—Sir Edmund intended to retire from the 
case. But Sir John had no intention of allowing this course 
at such an early stage, he had the court with him and had 
bigger guns to fire. 

“I can give my learned friend greater cause for recon¬ 
sidering the position of the defence, a defence which I 
understand is based on provocation, and I appeal to your 
worships to permit me to conclude my opening speech be¬ 
fore allowing any adjournment,” and then, barely waiting 
for a decision, counsel continued on a line which held even 
Sir Edmund spellbound. 

“Barrington’s defence is that my client at the meeting 
provoked the assault. A more infamous lie never came 
from the lips of even a supposed gentleman. Provocation 
came from my client, yes! it did,” thundered Sir John, 
thumping the desk in front of him. “But not at that meet¬ 
ing. My client never uttered a word on that occasion. 
The evidence I shall call will prove that beyond any shadow 
of doubt. But he did utter words on previous occasions, 
and I now come to what is without exception the most 
painful matter I have ever had to deal with in open court, 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


263 


and I am sure the bench will appreciate the difficulty and 
delicacy of my position. A short time ago it came to Mr. 
Tennant's knowledge that Barrington was endeavouring 
to bring about an engagement between himself and a certain 
lady who has recently been visiting these parts. This en¬ 
gagement Mr. Tennant was determined to prevent, and the 
reasons for his opposition reflect in the highest degree on 
Mr. Tennant’s loyalty and uprightness. My client has a 
friend, a gentleman of the name of George Henry de Havi- 
land. Mr. de Haviland is married to a lady who lives in 
this neighbourhood and who still bears his name. Unfor¬ 
tunately the marriage was not a happy one and Mr. de 
Haviland separated from his wife and left the country more 
than twenty years ago. In the course of his travels he 
arrived late one night at the Grand Hotel, St. Moritz, only 
to find that his wife was staying there under the protection 
of a Mr. Gerald du Barry, a cousin of hers, whom she had 
bigamously married, and who, by a remarkable coincidence, 
bore the same name as her brother, Gerald du Barry; a 
gentleman who emigrated to Australia about the same time 
and has never been heard of since. I mention this latter 
fact because it will be necessary for me to explain later 
on how it enabled Mrs. de Haviland to conceal the real 
relationship which exists between Yvonne du Barry and 
herself. 

“Now, as can be readily understood, the result of Mr. de 
Haviland’s discoveries was a very painful scene, in the 
course of which that gentleman at first threatened legal 
proceedings, but later, when it was pointed out that Mrs. 
de Haviland was in a certain condition, he, for the sake of 
the child which was then unborn, agreed to take no step 
to expose the scandal, subject to the strict observance of 
certain stipulated conditions. These were that his wife, 
Mrs. de Haviland, and Mr. du Barry were to separate im¬ 
mediately and give an undertaking not to see each other 
again, except in the case of the death, or anticipated death, 
of the expected child, and then only in the presence of 
others. That Mr. du Barry should have the custody of the 
child and that he would give his word of honour to do his 
utmost to prevent the child taking any step in life calcu¬ 
lated to give publicity to Mr. de Haviland’s dishonour and 


264 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Mrs. de Haviland’s shame. Whether those conditions were 
jnst and proper does not concern this court. They were 
conditions which both Mr. du Barry and Mrs. de Haviland 
accepted. But what is relevant is that Yvonne du Barry 
was that child.’’ 

Sir John’s manner of dealing with these matters was 
significant. His voice had been lowered, he spoke quickly, 
leaning towards the bench as far as he could with his hands 
resting on the desk in front of him, his whole attitude 
indicative of a desire to confine his remarks to the bench, 
and the bench alone. His words “Yvonne du Barry is that 
child” were almost whispered and so hurriedly spoken that 
in ordinary circumstances only the magistrates and those 
immediately around them would have heard. But in that 
court the mantle of tragedy had descended. Spellbound 
and stillbound, the words penetrated with the clearness of 
a bell to the remotest corner. A man’s life was being 
wrecked, a woman’s shame was being given to the world, 
a husband’s dishonour broadcasted, and every single soul 
in that crowded court scented the culmination of the 
tragedy. . . . Those dives into remote history were only 
preliminary to further revelations, . . . the atmosphere of 
the court whispered it, the walls echoed it, the pained ex¬ 
pression of the magistrates emphasised it. But more elo¬ 
quent than all was Sir John’s behaviour. Like one who 
hated an unpleasant task he had paused, paused as if to 
take breath, to screw himself up to complete what he had 
begun, and then, as if to steel his purpose, he drew himself 
up to his full height, gazed at an open window, passed his 
hand heavily across his brow and then suddenly, rapidly, 
continued: 

“Now it will be perfectly obvious that any marriage of 
Yvonne du Barry would give some degree of publicity to 
Mr. de Haviland’s dishonour. The marriage registers have 
to be filled in and the name, etc., of the parents entered in 
black and white, and out of friendship to Mr. de Haviland, 
Mr. Tennant promised to do his best to prevent her contem¬ 
plated marriage with Barrington. To complete the story 
which has such a great bearing on this case, I must mention 
that after Yvonne du Barry was born Gerald du Barry 
came to this country, bringing Yvonne du Barry with him, 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


265 


and it will be obvious that some plausible tale had to be 
invented for the child’s, Yvonne du Barry’s, presence. To 
explain that Mr. du Barry had made a secret marriage was 
a statement too near the truth to contemplate, and so it was 
arranged that he should pass himself off as Mrs. de Hav- 
iland’s brother, who, so they gave out, had married abroad 
and who, overwhelmed at the loss of his wife, was seeking 
consolation in retirement. By this arrangement it was a 
fairly easy matter to keep the secret, seeing that Mr. du 
Barry has practically lived the life of a recluse ever since, 
that Mrs. de Haviland’s brother has not been heard of for 
twenty years, and that the few members of the family who 
knew the circumstances of Yvonne du Barry’s birth had 
very good reason to lend countenance to the deception. 
That, briefly, is the secret of Yvonne du Barry’s birth. Mr. 
Tennant will tell you on oath that as soon as the agreement 
between Mr. du Barry, Mrs. de Haviland and her husband 
was reached, Mr. de Haviland disappeared again, but has 
kept up a spasmodic correspondence with him, and that 
quite recently these two friends met accidentally in Moscow. 
Mr. de Haviland was naturally anxious to hear the latest 
news about Mrs. de Haviland, and, in the course of con¬ 
versation, Mr. Tennant happened to mention that according 
to common gossip an engagement between her niece and 
Barrington was imminent. It was then that Mr. de Hav¬ 
iland, for the first time, told Mr. Tennant of his dishonour, 
for up till then Mr. Tennant knew none of these things and 
believed, as everyone else has believed, that Mrs. de Hav¬ 
iland bore no relationship to his friend, but was a childless 
widow, and that Yvonne du Barry was her brother’s child. 
It is unnecessary for me to burden the court with the details 
of the conversation which took place between my client and 
Mr. de Haviland. It will be sufficient for my purpose to 
state that as a result of that conversation Mr. Tennant was 
authorised to inform Barrington that a marriage with 
Yvonne du Barry was impossible. Mr. Tennant will tell 
you that on his return to England he told Barrington that 
in loyalty to his friend he would have to prevent the mar¬ 
riage, and that Barrington, the man whom I am going to 
expose in his true colours, told my client that he had enough 


266 ALL THAT MATTERS 

influence to hound him out of the county if he dared to 
interfere. 

“I have already stated that I am going to expose Cleeve 
Barrington in his true colours, and here again another, and 
even more, painful task falls to my lot; for in the cause 
of justice it will be necessary for me to refer to a very sad 
episode in the family life of the Biltons. A family in 
comparatively humble circumstances. It is a matter of 
common knowledge that Maud Bilton took her own life 
because she was in very serious trouble. But what is not 
a matter of common knowledge is that Barrington, the 
man who would have the electors of Longfield believe he 
stands for the just rights of the working man, was the 
cause of that poor demented girl’s trouble.” 

‘‘It’s a lie, a damned lie!” The words came ringing out 
of Cleeve Barrington’s mouth. 

The chairman leant over the desk in front of him. 

“Mr. Barrington, will you kindly show more respect to 
this court.” 

There was a menace in Col. Cartwright’s voice, a menace 
which clearly showed his antipathy to the accused. 

“I am sorry, sir.” 

A slight hiss could be heard at the back of the court and 
Col. Cartwright’s voice rang out again: 

“If there’s any more interruption from the body of the 
court I shall have the room cleared.” 

“The evidence which I shall call to prove the statement 
I have just made,” continued Sir John, who had treated 
Barrington’s outburst with a contemptuous expression of 
countenance, “is overwhelming. In the first place Mr. Ten¬ 
nant will state on oath that he charged Barrington with 
being the cause of Maud Bilton’s trouble and subsequent 
suicide, and that Barrington horsewhipped him for what he, 
at the time, characterised as ‘Tennant’s damned interfer¬ 
ence.’ I shall call Bilton, Col. Barrington’s gamekeeper, 
as a witness of that horsewhipping. I shall also produce 
during the course of this trial the letter of Maud Bilton on 
which Mr. Tennant’s charge was based. 

“From that letter only one inference can be drawn. To 
our case as a whole there is only one possible line of de¬ 
fence, namely, that the assault was committed under such 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


267 


grave and sudden provocation that, making allowances for 
human nature, it would be an act of injustice to convict. 
In the interest of justice I thank God we have enough 
evidence to smother such a defence. Provocation. Yes!” 
thundered Sir John, “Barrington had provocation, but it is 
the provocation which every scoundrel and seducer must 
be prepared to put up with as long as this country views 
their crimes with contempt and abhorrence. As for pro¬ 
vocation at the meeting itself, my client will emphatically 
deny that he uttered a single word or committed any act 
to which any right-thinking man could possibly take objec¬ 
tion, and in face of the corroborative evidence I shall offer 
on this point I challenge the defence to produce a single 
reputable witness to contradict us.” 

With those telling words Sir John Simpson resumed his 
seat. His opening speech was closed and he sat back in his 
chair, confident that his learned colleague, Sir Edmund 
Jervis, had only one course to adopt—to withdraw from 
the case. 

Col. Cartwright turned towards counsel for the defence. 

“I think, Sir Edmund, you desire a short adjournment?” 

“If you will allow me a few minutes with my client I 
may be able to shorten the proceedings. I was not aw&re 
that Mr. Tennant was prepared to accept an apology.” 

“He was,” interrupted Sir John. “He is not now.” 

“Nevertheless, I would appreciate a short adjournment,” 
Sir Edmund rejoined, “that is, provided my learned friend 
raises no objection?” 

Sir John signified his assent and Sir Edmund Jervis, fol¬ 
lowed by Cleeve Barrington, passed out of court. 


CHAPTER XLI 


r> E-ENTERING the crowded court a little later Sir Ed- 
mund Jervis resumed his seat, and it was noticed that 
Cleeve Barrington did not accompany him. 

“Well?” The eyes of Col. Cartwright were turned in 
Sir Edmund’s direction. 

Sir Edmund rose to his feet. “I’m afraid the case must 
proceed.” There was a tone of perplexity in his voice. 

Followed a stir in the court as Michael Tennant entered 
the witness-box with a green shade over his left eye. 

He bore out Sir John’s opening statements. 

“Will you swear on your oath that you never uttered a 
word at the meeting which could have given the slightest 
provocation to Barrington?” 

“Most certainly. I never uttered a single word which 
could have given offence to anyone. In fact, I don’t think 
I spoke at all.” 

“Will you kindly look at this letter.” 

Michael Tennant took the letter which Sir John passed 
up. 

“In whose handwriting is it?” 

“Maud Bilton’s.” 

“When did you receive it?” 

“The morning after Maud Bilton threw herself in the 
pond.” 

“Thank you; will you kindly hand it to me,” and then 
after an exchange of glances with Col. Cartwright, Sir John 
proceeded to read aloud: 

Dear Mr. Tennant, 

By the time you get this letter I shall have paid for my sin. I 
have nothing to add to what I told you. I blame no one but myself, 

268 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


269 


only my love was too great. This is the last and only request I 
have to make, that you will forgive Mr. Barrington as I too have 
forgiven all. 

Maud Bilton. 

Sir John Simpson sat down and in a court only too openly 
hostile Sir Edmund rose to cross-examine. 

“You say you received Maud Bilton’s letter the morning 
after she threw herself in the pond?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why was it not produced at the inquest?” 

“I was leaving for the Continent that morning and did 
not open my letters until I was in the train. ’ ’ 

“You could have posted it to the coroner.” 

“I never thought of that. Besides, I did not want to get 
mixed up in it.” 

“Then why get mixed up in it?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I thought you admitted that you got a horsewhipping 
because you accused Mr. Barrington of being the cause of 
her trouble. Isn’t that getting mixed up in it?” 

“I suppose it is,” admitted Tennant sullenly. 

“Will you please read her letter carefully. . . . Does it 
not strike you that there is a note of familiarity in that 
letter ?’’ 

Tennant perused the letter, and then in an even more sul¬ 
len voice replied, “Nothing undue.” 

“ ‘This is the last and only request I have to make.’ 
What claim had Maud Bilton to make a last request to 
you?” 

“I think you are reading the words of a distraught girl 
too literally.” 

“I am very grateful for your opinion, Mr. Tennant, but 
we will come to that presently. Did this horsewhipping 
which you speak of take place before or after you received 
the letter?” 

“Before.” 

“And your contention is that because you accused Mr. 


270 ALL THAT MATTERS 

Barrington of getting Maud Bilton into trouble he struck 
you?” 

‘‘Yes.” 

4 ‘You threatened to expose him, of course.” 

“No.” 

“Then can you explain the assault? It's usually the 
scoundrel in these cases who gets the horsewhipping, isn’t 
it?” 

“Well, I suppose I was so insistent that Mr. Barrington 
lost his temper.” 

“He wasn’t overcome with remorse?” 

“No, he asked me what the devil I meant by interfering.” 

“What did you mean?” 

“I wanted him to marry Maud Bilton.” 

A murmur of approval ran through the court and Col. 
Cartwright’s demand for silence was only just in time to 
suppress the cheering which threatened to follow. 

“How did you know she was in trouble?” 

“She told me.” 

“What! An unmarried girl told you she was in trouble 
through Mr. Barrington?” 

“Yes.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I promised to see Mr. Barrington.” 

“You didn’t tell her to consult her parents?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“And you naturally followed it up by discussing the 
matter with her father?” 

“No.” 

“No!” Sir Edmund echoed incredulously. “Why not?” 

“She implored me to keep it a secret.” 

“Oh! And you preferred to run the risk of a horse¬ 
whipping in your endeavour to get Mr. Barrington to marry 
her, rather than confide the secret to her parents and get 
them to act.” 

“I can see now it would have been better.” 

“Doesn’t it strike you that what you have just said 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


271 


points to the existence of a very great degree of familiarity 
between you and Maud Bilton?” 

“I was her friend.’’ 

“Not her lover, by any chance?” 

“No, her friend.” 

‘ * The friend of a working-class girl! Have you any other 
girl friends in that class who confide in you?” 

“No.” 

“Maud Bilton asks you in her letter to forgive Barring¬ 
ton; what had you to forgive?” 

“His getting her into trouble.” 

“I should have thought that a matter for her forgiveness, 
not yours.” Then, receiving no reply, counsel continued: 

“I suggest that Maud Bilton knew your vindictive nature 
and was asking you to forgive the horsewhipping.” 

“I’m not vindictive. My offer to accept an apology 
shows that.” 

“And there’s nothing vindictive about your dragging into 
this case the history of Yvonne du Barry’s birth?” 

“I was forced to do it to show Mr. Barrington’s motive 
in singling me out for the assault.” 

This closed the cross-examination and Sir John rose to 
re-examine. 

“Were you anything more than a friend to Maud 
Bilton ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, her godfather.” 

“Will you explain how you came to be her godfather?” 

“Her mother was my nurse, and when she asked me to 
be godfather to her daughter I felt it was only right to 
do something to repay her for her kindness and care of 
me • 

The next witness was Dr. Mornington, who testified to 
the seriousness of the injury which Tennant had sustained 
and stated that the sight of his left eye was totally and 
permanently destroyed. In his opinion the injury was 
caused by a blow. 

Sir Edmund rose to cross-examine. 

“Did Mr. Tennant go to your surgery to see you, or did 
he call you to his house?” 

“He came to the surgery.” 

“Which day was that?” 


272 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“The morning after the meeting in the Town Hall.” 

“Will you swear that it was the morning after?” 

“I am not quite positive, but I’m nearly sure.” 

“Do you keep a diary of your patients’ visits?” 

“Not when they come to the surgery and pay at the time.” 

“Did Tennant pay at the time?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you enter such payment in a cash book?” 

“No.” 

“Then you’ve no record to support your statement that 
it was the day after the meeting?” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

After Dr. Mornington, several other witnesses were 
called, one and all of whom bore testimony to the ill-treat¬ 
ment Tennant had received, and stated that, as far as 
they were aware, Tennant gave no cause for the assault. 
Then, finally, Bilton’s name was called. 

He took the oath sullenly, and it was obvious he felt 
his position acutely, as With savage expression he gave his 
evidence. 

He had no doubt whatever that Mr. Barrington was 
responsible for his daughter’s trouble. His daughter 
would not have written like that if he hadn’t been. He’d 
seen Barrington striking Tennant with his whip, but he 
left them to it, never thinking their quarrel had anything 
to do with his daughter. 

“When did you first mention this horsewhipping?” 
asked Sir John. 

“I saw Mr. Tennant’s solicitor the other day and first 
told him about it.” 

“Why did you go to Mr. Tennant’s solicitor?” 

“I was sent for to identify my daughter’s letter.” 

“A suggestion has been made in this court that Mr. 
Tennant was on familiar terms with your daughter. Is 
there any truth in that suggestion?” 

“Yes, he was always friendly with her; he was her 
godfather. ’ ’ 

“There was nothing improper in that friendship?” 

“No.” 

“You are quite certain about that?” 

“Positive.” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


273 


“Will you give us your reasons for being so positive?” 

“Well, sir, you see when I told my wife about Maud’s 

letter I told her I’d always had my doubts about Mr. 

Tennant, but as I’d nothing to go on I kept it to myself. 

Then the missus told me she’d known all along it was not 
Mr. Tennant whoever else it was, for the night before she 
was drowned Maud told her mother what was wrong with 
her. She wouldn’t say who it was, and my missus says, 
‘Is it Mr. Tennant?’ and she said she wouldn’t say who 
it was, but it wasn’t him; it was someone else.” 

“Did your wife give evidence at the inquest?” 

“No, sir. She was too ill and the coroner excused her.” 

“Is she prepared to give evidence in this court?” 

“She’s waiting outside.” 

Sir John looked towards Sir Edmund, who immediately 
rose and informed the court that he would accept Bilton’s 
account of the conversation with his wife. 

“That is our case,” said Sir John. 

Sir Edmund Jervis rose without any delay to open the 
defence. 

“Before I attempt to outline our defence, your worships, 
I want to make it quite clear that, had this issue not been 
complicated with happenings which occurred previous to 
the assault, we might have tendered an apology, and, 
without troubling you with further pleading or evidence, 
left the matter in your hands. The case, as presented by 
the prosecution is, however, far removed from the one of 
simple assault which my learned friend, in his opening 
address, was at such pains to emphasise. Everyone in 
this court, from the bench downwards, knows that the real 
issue is not whether Mr. Barrington committed a justifiable 
assault on Mr. Tennant or an unjustifiable one. We all 
know the issue is infinitely greater than that. Mr. Bar¬ 
rington is on his trial for what to a man in his position is 
as precious as life.” 

The words fell on a hushed court, for every single soul 
in that crowded room felt that counsel was only voicing 
his or her own feelings. Cleeve Barrington, the man they 
had all honoured, the man whose impetuous, lovable nature 
had won a place in their hearts,—a place which they could 
not deny him, be they Conservative, Liberal or Labour,— 


274 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


was in truth fighting for what they all knew was more to 
him than life. It was his honour that was at stake. 

As the words of Sir Edmund Jervis fell on that hushed 
court, its animosity momentarily melted in the flood of 
compassion that followed the full appraisement of the real 
issue. That he was guilty, every single soul now believed; 
that is, they believed deep down in their hearts, but the 
pity in them voiced a call for fair play, prompting them to 
recall the conviction “Guilty but justified,” which they 
had brought with them when they entered that court, and 
to hope that in the end that conviction would be re¬ 
established. 

‘ ‘ What is the case that I now have to meet ? ’ ’ Sir 
Edmund continued. “If the evidence and the pleading of 
the prosecution mean anything, they mean this, that my 
client is that contemptible of all men, a seducer and a 
vindictive scoundrel, and that the assault was a pre¬ 
meditated act of revenge on one who had justly accused the 
seducer of his crime.” 

Sir Edmund stopped suddenly. Three clear hoots of a 
motor horn could be heard, followed by the rumbling of a 
high powered car as with squeaking brakes it drew up in 
the courtyard on to which the windows of the court-room 
opened, and a few moments later Cleeve Barrington entered 
the room and took his place at the side of his counsel. The 
two exchanged glances, there followed a hurried, mumbled 
request to the bench, an affirmative nod from Col. 
Cartwright, and a whispered conversation between counsel 
and client inaudible to anyone else. 

“I can’t find them, Sir Edmund,” Barrington whispered 
apologetically. 

“Then I don’t see how I can refer to them.” 

An expression akin to reproach flitted across Barrington’s 
face as he replied: “Will no one believe in me?” 

For Sir Edmund Jervis that was enough. No one knew 
better than he the damage he might suffer from introducing 
into his pleading facts which could not be proved, but that 
look on Barrington’s face settled the matter. No guilty 
man could simulate such an expression; it hall-marked 
Barrington’s honesty as far as Sir Edmund was concerned, 
and his professional instinct melted in the wave of human 


AT LONGPIELD AGAIN 


275 


compassion that Barrington’s look had conjured. In that 
brief second the great K.C. had not only looked into 
Barrington’s eyes, he had looked deep into his very soul. 

At times we all do things which are foreign to our natures, 
and Sir Edmund Jervis did something which astonished 
himself even more than it astonished an astonished court, 
his hand found Barrington’s and a grip of understanding 
passed between them. 

“And Mrs. de Haviland,” Sir Edmund demanded in a 
whisper. 

“She’s here, in the car.” 

Then as suddenly as he had broken off Sir Edmund 
resumed. 

“I was saying a few moments ago that if the evidence 
of the prosecution means anything it means that the assault 
was a ^premeditated act of revenge. It was no act of 
revenge, it was an act of justice. I have no hesitation in 
saying that Tennant,”—the omission of Mister which Sir 
Edmund had previously used was not lost on the court,— 
“has distorted facts to suit his own purpose. There is no 
lie more difficult to combat than a lie which is half the truth, 
and that is my difficulty to-day. If my client Was re¬ 
sponsible for Maud Bilton’s trouble why bring in that pain¬ 
ful scandal of the de Havilands? Why go any further? 
The reason for the assault would be so patent to everyone, 
in view of the evidence on that point, that my client would 
stand convicted without another shred of evidence. Why, 
then, bring in his relations with Yvonne du Barry, which 
pale to insignificance beside his alleged relations with Maud 
Bilton?” Sir Edmund paused as though to provide suf¬ 
ficient time for his insinuation to be assimilated, but in 
reality to give himself time to choose more carefully his 
subsequent phrases, for he knew the danger of his line of 
defence in the absence of two letters which Cleeve Barring¬ 
ton had mislaid and could not find. 

“I will tell you why they are brought in,” counsel 
continued. “Tennant’s one desire is to blacken my 
client’s character at all costs. Truth is being distorted to 
this end, and if, in the process of blackening, the reputa¬ 
tions of those who are near and dear to him are attacked, 
so much the better. That is why Yvonne du Barry’s 


276 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


name has been brought so prominently into this case, and 
that is why the past history of Mrs. de Haviland has been 
raked up. * But much as I deplore the raking up of past 
history and the motive behind it, from the point of view 
of justice to my client nothing could serve our purpose 
better. The scoundrel always over-reaches himself, and 
Michael Tennant is no exception to the rule. I shall 
call Mrs. de Haviland as a witness and she will tell you 
that Tennant never was a friend of her husband, George 
Henry de Haviland. And if you believe Mrs. de Haviland 
you can come to only one conclusion, that Tennant has 
committed wilful perjury. If you come to that conclusion, 
then I submit you can place no reliance on Tennant’s 
evidence, except where it is corroborated by other re¬ 
liable testimony. What other reliable evidence have we? 
Maud Bilton’s letter? It means nothing! It is the letter 
of a distraught girl, a girl who clearly could not foresee, 
at the time she wrote it, the distorted meaning which the 
prosecution have sought to read into it. Read 1 in its 
proper light, that letter is the letter of a girl, a girl on 
the brink of eternity mind you, to her lover. It is not 
the letter of a godchild to her godfather. She asks Tennant 
to forgive Mr. Barrington, for what? For seducing her? 
Did you ever hear of a girl making such an appeal to 
her godfather? If Maud Bilton would not tell her 
mother the name of the man who had injured her, are you 
going to believe she would tell her godfather? The idea 
is too improbable for any sane person to contemplate! 
Cleeve Barrington will give you the correct story, and 
it is, thank God! a healthier and cleaner story. He 
accidentally overheard Maud Bilton and Tennant quarrel¬ 
ling in the wood which lies midway between the surgery of 
Dr. Mornington and his own home. He will tell you that 
he heard Tennant strike the girl, and, from what subse¬ 
quently transpired, he formed the opinion that Maud Bilton 
was in trouble, and he guessed the nature of her trouble and 
the cause of it. It was a pure guess on his part and not the 
result of improper questions. Tennant, on Mr. Barrington’s 
approach, like the coward he is, ran away, but not before 
my client had recognised him. Mr. Barrington will tell 
you, quite openly and frankly, that he took the first oppor- 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


277 


tunity that presented itself to give Tennant the thrashing 
he deserved, and, he will also tell you that he would do the 
same thing to anyone who took advantage of any young 
girl, particularly a girl who was the daughter of one of his 
father’s most trusted retainers. As to Bilton’s evidence, 
you can put it also on one side. It is honest evidence. 
There is no doubt about that, but it is the evidence of a 
distracted father, the outcome of a letter which on the face 
of it would deceive a greater intelligence than Bilton 
possesses. He has read into that letter what Tennant 
intended he should and the consequent resentment has 
blinded his mental vision.” 

“I don’t want to interrupt, Sir Edmund,” interpolated 
Col. Cartwright, “but you have accepted Bilton’s version 
of the conversation with his wife. You are not suggesting, 
are you, that there is any inaccuracy in his statement 
that Maud Bilton completely exonerated Mr. Tennant?” 

“Such a suggestion is very far from my mind. But I 
think I can easily dispose of that part of Bilton’s evidence. 
If Maud Bilton could lay down her life rather than yield 
up her secret, she would protect that secret at all costs. It 
is easier to lie for any cause than to die for it.” 

No part of counsel’s speech gripped the court as this 
reply of his to Col. Cartwright, and Sir Edmund, realising 
the favourable impression his words had created, hastened 
to close his address. 

“My learned friend has been at great pains to impress 
upon your worships that had Tennant been so disposed my 
client could have been put on trial for a much more serious 
offence, and would have you believe that Tennant refrained 
from doing so out of sheer generosity. That, from a man 
who has not scrupled to rake up the dead past out of sheer 
vindictiveness, is a preposterous suggestion, and no one 
but a fool or a knave would make it. Michael Tennant is 
no fool! And the reason he has not taken this case to a 
higher court is easily explained, for he would have to prove 
that the blow which caused that injury to his eye was 
struck by Mr. Barrington. That he has not attempted to 
do. That he could not do, for . . .” Here counsel paused 
for a moment. “Mr. Barrington will tell you in his 
evidence that he met Michael Tennant the morning after 


278 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


the assault and there was not an injury or scratch of any 
kind on his face. If you accept this statement and couple 
it with Dr. Mornington’s somewhat unsatisfactory evidence 
as to the exact date Tennant came to his surgery, and 
ask yourselves why, with such a serious injury, Tennant 
adopted the course of visiting the surgery instead of being 
treated at his own house, you will see that no jury could 
expunge from their minds a grave element of doubt. 
A doubt which will be all the more obvious when I em¬ 
phasise the fact that not one single witness has been 
called, other than Tennant himself, to prove that the blow 
which caused Tennant’s injury was struck at the meeting. 
It is because Tennant cannot prove this that he has not 
taken the case to a higher court. He has no wish to face 
a jury of his own countrymen on such an issue. 

“Counsel for the prosecution has solicited your sympathy 
for his client on account of the serious injury he has 
sustained. I say he is not entitled to your sympathy. 
I go further than this and say that a man who claims the 
sympathy of any court for alleged acts which he cannot 
prove is a man whose evidence must ‘a fortiori’ be open 
to the gravest suspicion. That being so I ask you to 
conclude that the blow which permanently disfigured 
Tennant was not struck by my client at that meeting, but 
at a later period, by some other person than Mr. Barrington, 
and for some other reason than that which the prosecution 
would have you believe. Struck by some person known 
only to Tennant himself. 

“My learned friend has appealed for the sympathy of 
this court, we appeal for its justice. That Cleeve Barrington 
did not assault Tennant is no part of our case. We 
admit the assault, but deny the blow. And I submit that 
the provocation received was of such a cumulative nature 
that any honourable man circumstanced as Mr. Barrington 
w^as circumstanced at the meeting, would have been goaded 
into committing acts which were beyond the power of 
human endurance to restrain. Our case is that Tennant 
is the seducer, and because my client gave him the thrash¬ 
ing he deserved he sought to injure him in two ways: 
by coming between him and Yvonne du Barry, and by 
breaking up his meeting. Tennant has admitted that he 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


279 


used the knowledge which he had gained in Moscow to 
force Cleeve Barrington to break his engagement, but he 
has not told you that he used that knowledge in an 
endeavour to obtain Mr. du Barry’s consent to an engage¬ 
ment between Yvonne du Bary and himself.” 

Sir John Simpson stood up. “If this is the line my 
learned friend proposes to take, I think the court is entitled 
to know the reasons why my client was not cross-examined 
on this point.” 

“I should have thought,” Sir Edmund retorted, “that 
my learned friend already gathered my reasons. Through¬ 
out the whole of my pleadings I have made no secret of 
our contention that Tennant has deliberately distorted the 
truth, and I submit no useful purpose would have been 
served by providing Tennant with further opportunities 
for distortion.” 

“Then I presume that my learned friend will call Mr. 
du Barry in support of this contention?” 

“My learned friend need presume no such thing. He 
knows as well as I do that Mr. du Barry is abroad, and 
that his exact whereabouts are unknown.” 

An amused smile of satisfaction spread over Sir John 
Simpson’s face as he sat down. 

“But,” Sir Edmund continued, “Mrs. de Haviland will 
give evidence on the point. She will tell you that Michael 
Tennant waylaid her one night in the grounds of Swanston 
House, and offered to suppress all reference to her big¬ 
amous marriage if she would use her influence to induce 
her cousin to consent to a marriage between Yvonne du 
Barry and himself. 

“With regard to Tennant’s attempt to break up the 
meeting, Mr. Barrington will tell you that a note was thrust 
into his hand by his secretary, Miss Ellis, and that that note 
was such that it left no doubt in Mr. Barrington’s mind 
that an organised attempt to break up the meeting was 
to be made, and that Michael Tennant was the ringleader.” 

Again Sir John Simpson rose to his feet. “I presume 
that that note will be produced in court, and that Miss Ellis 
will be called as a witness?” 

“I wish my learned friend would not interrupt my plead¬ 
ing! If he will only exercise a little patience I shall make 


280 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


our intentions perfectly clear. . . . Unfortunately for my 
client that note is also missing, and Miss Ellis is abroad, as 
far as we can make out, with the du Barrys, and in these 
circumstances the court will appreciate our difficulties. 7 ’ 

1 ‘Another missing link?” 

A gleam of amused satisfaction again shone in Sir John 
Simpson’s eyes as he hurled out this taunt. 

Sir Edmund gazed at his rival reflectively. Sir John’s 
constant interruptions were rapidly destroying any favour¬ 
able impressions which his opening statements had created. 
To refer to the subject matter of the second letter would, 
at this stage, only provide Sir John with another op¬ 
portunity to introduce more damaging interpolations, 
for that second letter also could not be produced. 

In the pause which naturally followed these reflections 
Sir Edmund decided to bring his speech to a close. The 
whole of his case, he now felt convinced, depended on Mrs. 
de Haviland’s evidence. If that was believed he had more 
than a sporting chance. If it wasn’t there was an end of 
the case as far as establishing Cleeve’s bona tides were 
concerned. Like the capable advocate he was, Sir Edmund 
came to a rapid decision. He would make a few brief 
remarks about Mrs. de Haviland’s evidence, close his speech 
and immediately put her in the box. And so it was with 
this intention he continued: 

“There are no missing links of any vital importance in 
our case. It stands or falls by Mrs. de Haviland’s evidence. 
If you believe her you can come to only one conclusion, 
namely that Tennant is a vindictive and perjured scoundrel, 
a man who will stop at nothing to gain his own ends. If 
you come to that conclusion, then I submit I am entitled 
to ask this court to accept Mr. Barrington’s evidence 
wherever it is in conflict with the uncorroborated evidence 
of Michael Tennant.” And then ignoring a further in¬ 
terruption from Sir John,—asking if there would be any 
corroboration of Mrs. de Haviland’s evidence,—counsel for 
the defence resumed his seat. 

“Eloise de Haviland.” The name, uttered by the court 
crier, reverberated ominously through the court, for every¬ 
one had expected Sir Edmund to put his client at once into 
the witness-box. 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


281 


“I don’t understand this, Sir Edmund,” said Col. Cart¬ 
wright in a tone of disapproval. “You’re adopting a 
very unusual course. Are you not going to call your 
client ? ’ ’ 

“I shall certainly put Mr. Barrington in the box, but 
this is a very unusual case, and I propose to take Mrs. de 
Haviland’s evidence first.” 

Followed a few whispers on the bench and Col. Cartwright 
was speaking again: 

“We have decided to adjourn till to-morrow, Sir Ed¬ 
mund,” he said, and it was remarked that the intonation 
of disapproval in Col. Cartwright’s voice still remained. 


CHAPTER XLII 


<* TA/'HAT made you do it?” asked the Hon. Alfred E. P. 

* * Maynard, to whom the announcement of the ad¬ 
journment had come so suddenly and unexpectedly that he 
was quite at a loss to find adequate reason for what was 
really only Col. Cartwright’s decision. 

“It was the only thing to do, Maynard,” replied Col. 
Cartwright to his fellow magistrate. “We’ve got to call an 
emergency meeting of the committee and nominate Martin 
Selby at once. Ought to have done it from the first, now 
it’ll be touch and go to get his papers through in time. I 
sent the call notices out during the lunch adjournment. 
Meeting’s at my house at five. Can I give you a lift?” 

Maynard hesitated. He felt he would rather not attend 
the meeting of the committee of the Conservative Associa¬ 
tion, for it was against his tenets to hit any man when he 
was down, moreover Cleeve Barrington had, in his opinion, 
more than a sporting chance. 

“Come, jump in, Maynard. We’ll be late as it is.” 

There was something in Col. Cartwright’s voice which 
compelled Maynard to “jump in,” but it was not its 
commanding expression nor the flushed cheek and scowling 
eyes of the speaker—for these things would only have made 
Maynard’s hesitation greater—it was the ring of finality 
which decided him. Col. Cartwright generally got his own 
way, that is, when he made up his mind. It was obvious 
he had made it up about Cleeve Barrington. “But Cart¬ 
wright won’t get his way this time,” said Maynard to him¬ 
self, “that is, not unless he can convince me. I’ll split the 
committee rather than abandon Barrington on anything 
short of thorough conviction,” and with this reflection 
Maynard entered the purring car, humming its impatience 
for a released clutch, and had barely time to shut the door 
before it glided away. 


282 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


283 


“I think, Cartwright, you’re rushing matters a bit, you 
know,” said Maynard presently in a voice which was 
particularly persuasive. “If we once nominate Martin 
Selby there’s no going back. He’s a barrister, and these 
barrister chaps are so tenacious.” 

Col. Cartwright noted that persuasive ring. Maynard 
was always most dangerous and obstinate when he spoke 
like that, so he promptly “shortened his sail” to that 
dangerous wind. 

“Look here, Maynard,” he responded disarmingly, what 
time the flush faded from his cheeks and the grim expression 
left his mouth, for Col. Cartwright knew the value of the 
actor’s art, “if Barrington had a dog’s chance I’d risk it, 
but he hasn’t.” 

“I don’t agree with you. I’ve more than an open mind. 
If you had waited till Mrs. de Haviland had given her 
evidence I think we could have prejudged the issue, but as 
it is we can’t. You let her name be called, and then on a 
consultation with us, which was little more than a pretence, 
you announced a decision to adjourn which had never been 
agreed to.” 

“Look here-” 

“No, the thing’s done; I’m not going back on that, I 
should have objected at the time, I know, but that’s not 
what I’m driving at. I say the whole thing rests on Mrs. 
de Haviland’s evidence. If she says her husband didn’t 
know Tennant and that he tried to bully her into agreeing 
to a marriage with Yvonne, well, as far as I’m concerned, 
I’ll give Barrington the benefit of the doubt.” 

“So would I, in ordinary circumstances. I think I’m 
even more sorry for Mrs. de Haviland than for Barrington, 
it’s an awful position for her. I felt I’d like to knock out 
Tennant’s other eye for attacking her, but sentiment isn’t 
justice, is it?” 

“Justice isn’t everything.” There was a soupgon of a 
sneer in Maynard’s voice. “It puts too big a premium on 
cold, hard facts, and discounts circumstances and feelings 
like a Jew. If ever there was a white woman that woman 
is Eloise de Haviland, bigamy or no bigamy!” Maynard 
added heatedly. 



284 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Col. Cartwright noted that heat with inward satisfaction. 

“So you’d believe every word she said?” 

“Yes, I would!” 

“So would I.” 

“Then why didn’t you wait and hear what she had to say? 
Really, Cartwright, I don’t understand you. You let that 
poor woman screw herself up to her ordeal in the box, let 
her go through all that anguish of mind and then, when 
her name is called, act like this! And she’s got to go 
through it all again; do you know what that means? A 
night of agony, and all over again!” 

“D’you think I don’t feel that as much as you do? But 
if my own wife Were in Mrs. de Haviland’s position I should 
have been forced to do the same. Do you read Kipling?— 

‘Whatsoever for any cause 
Seeketh to take or give 
Power above or beyond the laws 
Suffer it not to live! 

Holy state or holy King 
Or holy peopled will— 

Have no truck with the senseless thing 
Order the guns and kill!’ 

“If we’re not careful it’ll come to that. It’s either 
Conservative government or civil war, the Liberals aren’t in 
the running, and Labour’s wagged by its tail. I’d rather 
have Prussianism than Russianism and so would Labour if 
every working man was over the age of thirty. It’s a case 
of killing now, to save killing later on, but killing feelings 
this time, as far as we are concerned. Whatever Mrs. de 
Haviland says, Barrington’s guilty. Even if he gained 
the verdict the division would consider it a case of ‘ not 
proven,’ the stigma would remain, the belief that we were 
influenced by a sense of class protection would live, and 
what chance would he have at the polls? No, Maynard, 
duty comes before justice or sentiment, and our duty is to 
our country in times like this.” 

“But if you believe Mrs. de Haviland, why throw over 
Barrington before you’ve heard her?” 

“Because it’s Mrs. de Haviland that’s the unknown 
quantity. If Mrs. de Haviland says Tennant never knew 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


285 


her husband it’ll be the truth, but only the truth as far as 
her knowledge and belief extends. It doesn’t follow that a 
woman, either before or after marriage, knows all her 
husband’s friends; if she did there surely would be fewer 
marriages. If Tennant was not de Haviland’s friend how 
did he obtain the knowledge of that bigamous marriage? 
And I’ve no doubt of the bigamy, have you?” 

“Well, that’s not all, is it, Cartwright? What about 
Tennant promising to keep the scandal quiet if Mrs. de 
Haviland would help him to marry Yvonne? And what 
about Cleeve’s evidence? If he says he met Tennant the 
morning after the meeting and his eye was all right then, 
I’ll believe him. I was on the platform and I never saw 
him strike Tennant.” 

“Maynard, you know that old saying: ‘All’s fair in 
love and war,’ well I don’t exactly agree, but a fellow when 
he’s in love does some funny things sometimes.” 

“Oh yes, I know all that, but it was a dirty low down 
trick to try and get hold of Yvonne that way.” 

“My dear Maynard, if there hadn’t been low down tricks 
on both sides this case would never have taken the turn it 
has. I don’t think Cleeve’s evidence is going to be quite 
a clean potato.” 

“Whatever makes you think that?” 

“Well, I suppose I ought not to judge things from per¬ 
sonal knowledge, but I can’t help being influenced by what 
I saw and know. You say you did not see Cleeve strike 
Tennant, well if he didn’t my eyesight must be at fault. I 
distinctly saw Cleeve let fly at Tennant, just as he got him 
to the door, and the next instant down Tennant went.” 

“I didn’t see that, I thought Tennant stumbled.” 

“Well, he didn’t; the floor’s as flat as a pancake, there 
was nothing to stumble over; and, as for Cleeve saying he 
met Tennant the next morning, if he is going to say it, and 
Tennant’s eye was all right; well, it doesn’t fit in with what 
I remember. I met Cleeve just after he’d met Tennant, and 
as far as I can recollect it was not the morning after the 
meeting, but the morning after that, and there’s no doubt 
that Tennant’s eye was bashed in then.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t swear to it, but ‘I’m pretty sure,’ as 


286 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


old Mornington says, and I’ll tell you why. I remember 
distinctly talking to Cleeve about the summons. That was 
granted on the 21st, the Town Hall meeting was on the 
19th. Well, if Cleeve met Tennant on the 20th as he’s 
going to say, how could I have talked to him about the case 
that day, when I didn’t know there was going to be a case? 
That’s number one in my gizzard, as I’ve often heard Cleeve 
say. Number two, if Cleeve didn’t bung up Tennant’s 
eye, who did?” 

“So you think,” said Maynard dubiously, “that Cleeve’s 
not going to stick to the truth?” 

“What else can I think if he’s going to say he met 
Tennant on the 20th and his eye was all right, when I 
know he met him on the 21st, if he met him at all?” 

“But I’m sure Jervis is convinced that Cleeve’s going 
to tell the truth, and I’ve never found Cleeve out in a lie, nor 
has anyone else.” 

“But you’ve never seen Cleeve in a corner like this before, 
nor has anyone else. It’s these impetuous, reckless natures 
which get carried away by the heat or passion of the 
moment; and I fancy that’s just what happened with 
Cleeve and Maud Bilton. Case of sudden temptation, he 
couldn’t resist, but he’s in a damned mess now, Maynard, 
and he’s got to get out of it as best he can. Not for his 
own sake, I know Cleeve well enough to say he wouldn’t 
tell a lie to save his own skin. It’s that mother of his he’s 
lying for. As for Jervis, I am not carried away by his 
rhetoric. . . .It’s his job to speak convincingly, and 
you’ve got to hear Simpson’s reply. If I’m any judge of 
expressions, he’s quite confident of the issue, and as for 
me, when a man like Jervis begins to talk about ‘reason¬ 
able doubt’ I know he hasn’t much faith in the cause 
he advocates; but apart from everything else, that letter 
of Maud Bilton’s is quite enough. Jervis can say what 
he likes, these legal minds lay too much stress on rational 
acts. It’s all very well to thump the table and ask us 
what we or any other rational man would do in such 
circumstances, but 1 we men don’t have babies and no 
rational man or woman commits suicide. Those who do 
it are not rational and their acts must be judged from 
irrational standards. A girl on the brink of eternity, as 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


287 


Jervis put it, doesn’t write and ask her godfather to forgive 
a few blows given in the heat of the moment. The 
suggestion is absurd! Maud Bilton asked forgiveness for 
her lover, her last acts were her sacrifice to her love. 
Woman-like, she gave her secret to the keeping of a man. 
Not to her mother; she knew the failing of her sex. Not 
to her father; his injury was hers magnified. The whole 
defence is weak; rob it of Jervis’ eloquence and what does 
it all amount to? ... . Mrs. de Haviland will tell you 
Tennant was never a friend of her husband—an obvious 
absurdity, Maynard—considering what he knows—therefore 
Tennant is a liar. Maud Bilton’s letter only refers to a 
few blows, therefore it must be Tennant who put her in 
the family way! You can’t swallow that, Maynard, can 
you?” 

“Well, old boy, put that way it doesn’t look very hopeful 
for Barrington, I must admit.” 

“But that’s the position we’ve got to face, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Maynard spoke the words re¬ 
luctantly, like one convinced against his will. 

“So, you see, what else can we do? We must nominate 
Martin Selby, we can’t throw the seat away.” 

“No, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done.” 


CHAPTER XLIII 


“PLOISE DE H AVIL AND! ’’ 

The name was called for the second time, and then 
the tall, stately figure entered the box. The public strained 
forward to catch the first glimpse of the woman they all 
knew, at any rate by sight, brought face to face with her 
shame, to see the destruction of her hauteur, to view the 
ravages of a night of torment. Her friends looked with 
pity and sympathy in their hearts; but the nervous, sinking 
feeling which comes to all of us when a friend, whose 
friendship we have been proud to claim, for the first time 
faces her accusers in such a setting, gave place to astonish¬ 
ment. Mrs. de Haviland bore no signs of having passed a 
sleepless night, the expression on her face was one of serene 
relief. 

Sir John Simpson noticed it with satisfaction; old hand 
at the game he recognised it as the outward and visible sign 
of the courage which guilt found out inspires. One glance 
told him the nature and quality of her evidence. She 
would, out of revenge, give Tennant the lie wherever 
possible, for the rest it would be the truth and nothing but 
the truth. 

“Woman at bay is a courageous animal/’ he whispered 
to his junior, who, looking steadfastly at her for a few 
moments over the rims of his tortoiseshell spectacles, 
silently nodded his answer. 

Sir Edmund Jervis was aware of what was passing 
through the minds of his opponents. In the absence of 
those missing letters his defence could only be successful 
in a favourable atmosphere. The manner in which Col. 
Cartwright had peremptorily adjourned the proceedings in 
spite of his, Sir Edmund’s, impassioned appeal to have 
Mrs. de Haviland’s evidence heard, had convinced him that 
the atmosphere was not favourable. If only Barrington 

288 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


289 


had written that apology- Then as that thought 

occurred to him he remembered Barrington’s words: 
“Will no one believe in me?” and his mouth firmed. 

Mrs. de Haviland was taking the oath. She swore that 
the evidence she would give in this case would be the truth, 
the whole truth and nothing but the truth. 

“If she did that,” Sir Edmund told himself as he rose to 
examine, “uninfluenced by any feelings of revenge, he 
might have a chance. It was worth fighting for because 
he believed in Barrington.” 

“Your name is?” 

“Eloise du Barry.” 

Eloise du Barry! Was the woman mad? Was she 
going to say she had never been legally married to de 
Haviland? For once Sir John Simpson dropped his 
mask, he dropped the pencil he was holding, rather, he 
threw it on the table in a manner indicative of disgust, and 
leant back in his chair. “Phew!” He made no attempt 
to render inaudible the sound, half-whistle, which escaped 
his lips. He had not accepted Tennant’s statement of 
that bigamous marriage without the fullest investigations. 
The woman was going to lie, lie as only a woman can; 
but it didn’t alter the fact that he had a totally different 
case to meet. He had been so sure that the bigamous 
marriage would not be denied that he had not thought it 
necessary to obtain the documents which would prove the 
legality of her marriage with de Haviland, or examined 
Tennant particularly on that point. Now it was too late, 
his case was closed. Later on he could have her prose¬ 
cuted for perjury, and he would, but that would take 
time. Meanwhile Barrington would win his case and the 
election.—Sir John was not aware that the Conservative 
Association had already thrown over Barrington and 
adopted Martin Selby.—Barrington, the arch fiend, would 
go scot free. He could not have Barrington re-tried because 
one of his witnesses had not told the truth. His friend, 
the Labour candidate, would not have the walk-over he, 
Sir John, had anticipated as a result of this trial, and it 
was his friend more than Tennant for whom he was fighting. 

Sir Edmund was even more taken aback than Sir John. 
It was only after seeing Mrs. de Haviland yesterday that 



290 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Barrington had confirmed that bigamous marriage, but 
the attitude of Sir John had stiffened Sir Edmund’s self- 
control. For himself he would show no surprise; if Mrs. 
de Haviland liked to commit perjury for Barrington’s sake 
that was her look out. His duty was to his client. He 
had no doubt of Barrington’s innocence, “none whatever,” 
he said to himself, “and if Mrs. de Haviland saves him at 
the expense of her own freedom, well, she will not be the 
first among women to sacrifice everything for love of child 
or man, God bless them! For our duty’s sake we barristers 
have sometimes to pour scorn on such women, but in our 
hearts we love them. I know it,” he almost murmured, 
“we all know it. God knows it. It was Adam who whined, 
not Eve, yet hers was the greater punishment.” 

And so it came about that Sir Edmund gave an encourag¬ 
ing nod of his head as he continued his examination, 
and even Col. Cartwright was aware of the added 
deference in his manner. 

“Is there any truth in the statement that you are not 
legally married to Mr. du Barry?” 

“Not that I’m aware of.” 

Sir John was on his feet. “Really, your worships, this 
is going too far! My learned friend’s examination 
absolutely appals me. Has he forgotten that it is part of 
his case that this witness would swear that Tennant was 
not a friend of her husband, Mr. de Haviland, and that we 
have given conclusive evidence that Mr. de Haviland is 
alive ? ’ 9 

It was Sir Edmund’s turn now to be perturbed; he had 
been so taken aback by Mrs. de Haviland’s intended 
sacrifice that he had shot out that question without thought 
and had momentarily forgotten that pleading of his. 
How had he come to make such a mistake ? His deferential 
manner disappeared and in cold calm tones he warned 
his witness to be careful—“He wanted the truth!” 
Then hurriedly turning over his notes he held a whispered 
conversation w;ith Barrington, looked more puzzled still, 
Barrington nodded but looked dumbfounded and only one 
soul in that room looked self-possessed—Mrs. de Haviland. 

The general public, every member of the bench, wore 
the same expression, the expression on the faces of an 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 291 

audience listening to a farce. Sir Edmund glancd at Sir 
John and the look of the latter steeled him. 

“I will put my question in another way," he continued 
sternly. “Have you ever contracted a bigamous marriage?" 

"Not to my knowledge, at the time." 

"What is the name of your present husband?" 

"Gerald du Barry." 

"Are you known by that name?" 

"I am known by the name of de Haviland." 

"How came you by that name?" 

"It is the name of my former husband and until now 
I have never changed it." 

"Can you tell us why?" 

"I only heard of his death late last night." 

Sir Edmund felt he understood this poor woman at last. 
She had borne the name of the husband who had deserted 
her for all those years, and now, for the first time, she felt 
she could assume the name of the man who had con¬ 
tracted an illegal marriage with her without fear of Mr. 
de Haviland’s molestations. She was assuming that her 
marriage with du Barry was now legal. Such an assump¬ 
tion betrayed an appalling ignorance of the law, but it was 
the only possible explanation. A woman like Mrs. de 
Haviland would not deliberately tell such obvious lies, and 
she hadn’t lied to Barrington yesterday when she had 
confirmed her illegal marriage; but it was not for him, 
Sir Edmund, to drag out her secrets. His "learned 
friend" would no doubt cross-examine her on the illegality 
and, when the law was explained to her in the process 
of cross-examination, she would admit it openly, frankly. 
He felt convinced she was a truthful witness, a scrupul¬ 
ously truthful witness. She would lay bare the mistake 
of her life, seeking neither to palliate nor excuse it, would 
lay it bare with the candour and openness which always 
carries conviction in any court. His best course was to put 
his two relevant questions, close his examination, and let 
Sir John do his worst. 

"Was Michael Tennant a friend of Mr. de Haviland?" 

"Never!" 

"Did Tennant seek your influence to bring about a 
marriage between himself and Yvonne du Barry, under 


292 ALL THAT MATTERS 

threat of exposing your relations with your cousin, Gerald 
du Barry ? ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

Sir John rose to cross-examine, not quite so sure of him¬ 
self. The atmosphere which a truthful witness creates was 
not lost on him. The self-confidence of Mrs. de Haviland 
shook his self-confidence. Was there a trap somewhere? 
He rapidly reviewed the chain of evidence against Barring¬ 
ton, and his confidence returned; the chain was too com¬ 
plete, too strong to be broken. Sir Edmund, too, he con¬ 
cluded, knew its strength, that was why his examination 
of the witness had been so curtailed. 

“I want to question you about your marriage . . . legal 
or otherwise, I shall come to that later . . . with Mr. du 
Barry. I suppose you will not deny such a marriage 
took place?” Sir John snapped out sarcastically. 

“There were two marriages,” responded Mrs. de Havi¬ 
land. 

“Two marriages. Will you kindly explain?” 

“Mr. de Haviland left me about twelve months after 
our marriage and went to Mexico with a friend of his, a 
Mr. Clark, and about a month afterwards he wrote me 
from Mexico City that he was considering the question of 
separating from me and would make a proposal in his next 
letter. Shortly after that there was a fire in one of the big 
hotels there, and it was burnt to the ground. Mr. de 
Haviland and Mr. Clark were in the hotel at the time, and, 
according to newspaper reports, Mr. de Haviland lost his 
life and Mr. Clark was rescued just before the building 
finally collapsed. I did not hear from Mr. de Haviland 
again, and naturally presumed the newspaper reports were 
correct. After a while I went to Switzerland; there I 
met my cousin Mr. du Barry, who had followed me, and 
whom, I am proud to say, I have always loved. It was 
jealousy over Mr. du Barry which came between Mr. de 
Haviland and myself, for neither before nor after marriage 
did I disguise my love. I showed Mr. du Barry the news¬ 
paper reports, and then, as he had recently come into the 
family estates on the death of his father, he tried to per¬ 
suade me to marry him. For a week or two I resisted his 
pleading; I was very young at the time, I feared Mr. de 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


293 


Haviland greatly, and furthermore, I did not wish to 
offend his people by marrying so soon after his death, or 
my own people, seeing that Mr. du Barry's father had 
hardly been two months in his grave. In the end, however, 
I agreed, but only on condition that we lived, for a time, 
in obscurity in Switzerland, and under an assumed name. 
I really made this condition because I was so frightened of 
Mr. de Haviland that I could not banish from my mind 
the possibility of his reappearing one day and creating 
trouble. 

“It was our intention to live quietly like this for a few 
months, then come to England and inform our friends we 
had been married abroad, but to keep the date an absolute 
secret. Later on we were told by a very trusted friend 
that our marriage under an assumed name was not legal. 
We had taken a little chalet near a remote and out of the 
way village, and were known as Mr. and Mrs. Wingate, the 
name Mr. du Barry had assumed. When we learnt that 
there was a doubt about the legality of our marriage we 
were naturally very perturbed; we could not go through 
another ceremony in Switzerland without creating a scandal, 
so we decided to go to Moscow and get married at the 
British Embassy. Mr. du Barry made all arrangements 
for this with a great friend of his, Captain Barrington, now 
Colonel Barrington, Mr. Cleeve Barrington’s father, who 
was the Military Attache there at the time; he was let 
into the secret and, for both our sakes, promised to prevent 
any publicity. 

“It was to discuss the arrangements that we went to 
St. Moritz where Captain Barrington was staying. Un¬ 
fortunately, on the day before we were all due to leave, 
Mr. de Haviland reappeared, and there was an angry scene 
in the hotel. In the altercation and recriminations which 
followed it transpired that it was Mr. Clark who had been 
burnt in the hotel and that Mr. de Haviland had not only 
deliberately allowed the authorities to assume his death, 
but had identified the charred remains of Mr. Clark as those 
of his own. Mr. du Barry then openly accused him of 
plotting my destruction, and it was then, for the first time, 
that Mr. de Haviland showed himself in his true colours. 
He gloried in his deceit, made no secret of the fact that 


294 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


he had made every effort to have his own death widely 
published in the hope that I would remarry and give him 
the opportunity of taking a terrible revenge. 

“Travelling under the name of Mr. Clark, it transpired 
that Mr. de Haviland returned to Europe, traced me to 
Switzerland, made himself thoroughly acquainted with our 
circumstances, and then, following us to St. Moritz, deliber¬ 
ately created a terrible scene. We were sitting at dinner 
in the public dining-room at the time and words were 
quickly changed to blows. Mr. Tennant, who was the hotel 
manager, sent for the police, and when Mr. de Haviland 
found that the police regarded him as the aggressor, and 
were prepared, at Mr. Tennant’s instigation, to prosecute 
him—for naturally Mr. Tennant resented such a scene in 
one of his public rooms—Mr. de Haviland became more 
reasonable and we all retired to a private room to try 
and arrange matters. I wanted to give the widest publicity 
to what had happened, but Mr. du Barry wouldn’t hear of 
it. His one idea was to save me from such a scandal, and 
for the sake of our child, then unborn, he finally persuaded 
me to accept the terms on which Mr. de Haviland was 
prepared to hush things up. A fairly easy matter, as we 
happened to be the only English people in the hotel at 
the time, and were staying under the name of Wingate. 
Both Mr. du Barry and I have strictly adhered to the terms 
except in one particular. Just before my baby was born 
we met in Moscow by arrangement, and went through 
another ceremony at the Embassy, as previously intended. 
We met at the Embassy and separated there. That 
second marriage was a legal one, and- 

“I think I shall be able to disabuse your mind about 
that,” said Sir John sarcastically. “According to your own 
statement, you only heard of your husband’s death last 
night, and Mr. Tennant has stated in his evidence that he 
met your husband in Moscow a few months ago. You don’t 
wish the court to believe you are so unsophisticated that 
you don’t know any marriage, under assumed names or 
otherwise, is illegal during the lifetime of your husband?” 

“You don’t let me finish what I have to say. I was 
going to-” 

“I have let you go quite far enough. I did not stop 



AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


295 


you before because a lady in your position does not, as a 
rule, contract an illegal marriage from sordid motives, and 
I did not wish to deprive you of an opportunity to explain 
to the public, through this court, the circumstances which 
brought about your union with Mr. du Barry. But we 
are not trying you, Mrs. de Haviland, we are trying Bar¬ 
rington, and I must ask you to confine your remarks to 
the points raised by me in cross-examination, and none 
other. What made you go through that second illegal 
marriage ? ’ ' 

“That is very difficult to explain, but I was ill at the 
time, very ill, and perhaps we 're not quite normal at 
such times, moreover, just as I had a feeling when I first 
married Mr. du Barry that my former husband was alive, 
I then had a feeling he was dead. Anyway, I wanted 
to marry under the name of du Barry, and I'm glad I did, 
for that marriage in Moscow was legal, although I did not 
know it at the time.” 

“Legal? How d'you make that out?” Sir John ques¬ 
tioned sharply, aware from her very persistence that the 
point could not be burked. 

“Well, read that if you won't let me explain,” Mrs. de 
Haviland replied heatedly, holding out a letter towards 
Sir John as she spoke. 

Sir John, who, with bowed head and bent back, had been 
momentarily examining his notes, was so startled by Mrs. 
de Haviland's heated and indignant reply that he raised 
his head suddenly, his spectacles dropped from his nose, 
and falling on the table in front of him, their glasses broke; 
but he took the letter, held it a long way from him in an 
effort to decipher its contents, shook his head despairingly, 
and addressed the court. 

“I am afraid that without my spectacles I am unable to 
read this, but with your permission I will ask my junior 

1 7 

“If you will hand me the letter,” said Colonel Cart¬ 
wright agitatedly, “I will read it.” 

A puzzled frown puckered Colonel Cartwright's brows 
as he gave a cursory glance to ascertain its purport. 


296 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“Ahem!” he coughed. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t quite under¬ 
stand this.” Then, coughing again to clear his throat, he 
read: 


Hotel Geneva, Berne. 

My dear Mother, 

We are fighting against time, but father is hopeful that the 
Federal Court will give its decision to-morrow night. He is going 
to write you by the same post, giving you full details of how the 
case has progressed up till now, so I need not go into that; I have 
a more important thing to write about. When I left Longfield 
I took Miss Ellis with me, as I did not want Cleeve’s correspon¬ 
dence to be held up. I knew he would be very upset at my sud¬ 
den departure and the temporary breaking off of the engagement, 
so we, that is, Miss Ellis and I, bundled all the letters and papers 
on his desk into an empty portmanteau, and Miss Ellis answered 
as many as she could before leaving Paris. But naturally the work 
wjas interrupted because we had to leave so hurriedly to attend the 
inquest here, and it was not until to-day that Miss Ellis was able 
to deal with the few remaining letters, and what do you think we 
found?—a letter from Maud Bilton to Cleeve. I don’t know how 
it could have got mixed up with his official correspondence, but 
I am sending it on at once, as, although I don’t know what the 
real case is against Cleeve, I had a feeling on reading Maud Ba¬ 
ton’s letter that it might come in useful. That beast, Mr. Ten¬ 
nant, hinted to me once that Cleeve was responsible for Maud 
Bilton’s death, and I was silly enough at the time to listen to him. 
This letter has opened my eyes. Even now I can hardly believe 
that any man could descend so low as to blame someone else for 
his own evil work; it is too horrible to contemplate. Oh, how I 
hate myself now for ever listening to him; I feel, although I should 
always have loved Cleeve, no matter what he had done, as though 
I shall never be able to look him in the face again. I hate my¬ 
self so much I really can’t write any more, mother; I feel I am 
almost as contemptible as that beast himself. 

Always, darling, your affectionate daughter, 

Yvonne. 

After reading the letter aloud Colonel Cartwright looked 
first at Sir Edmund, then at Sir John, who were both gaz¬ 
ing at him with bewilderment on their faces. 

“I can’t understand it,” Colonel Cartwright repeated 
dazedly, as though to himself. 

“I have given you the wrong letter,” Mrs. de Haviland 
explained composedly, and as she uttered the words the 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


297 


eyes of everyone in court fastened on her face. She drew 
another letter from her bag and, with a sweetly triumphant 
smile, passed it up to the bench. It was an official-looking 
document, tied with green tape and attached to it was a 
large red judicial-looking seal, and a letter signed by Mr. 
du Barry. Colonel Cartwright turned the letter over and 
his eyes fell on “Your lawful husband at long, long last, 
Gerald.” 

“This is a personal letter to you, Mrs. de Haviland, do 
you want me to read it to the court ?” 

“Most certainly.” 

During this conversation Maynard was seen whispering 
to Colonel Cartwright, who abstractedly handed him 
Yvonne du Barry’s letter. 

My darling Wife, 

How can I tell yon the glad news? For there are tears in my 
eyes as I write, tears, my dear wife, of gladness for the future, 
but tears of sorrow and bitterness for the long, long years of un¬ 
necessary separation which cannot be recalled. The Federal Court 
have decided that the body discovered at the foot of the glacier, 
which I wrote you about, is that of George Henry de Haviland. 
When I saw it two days ago I recognised it at once. It was de 
Haviland as he was twenty years ago, dressed in that horribly loud 
fawn and brown check knickerbocker suit, which he was wearing 
when he entered the hotel. An alpine stock was clasped in his 
hand, and except that the features were cold and wax-like there 
was not a sign that all these years have passed since we last saw 
him alive. It appears that the next morning, according to the 
evidence of an old guide, now retired, he was seen in the neighbour¬ 
hood of the glacier unattended, and although his luggage was at the 
Grand Hotel, St. Moritz, where he had engaged a room, which was 
quite clear from the entry in the Hotel books, he was never seen 
again and the court have presumed his death from that date. The 
decision was given late to-night, and at first the judge refused to 
give me a copy of the judgment at such a late hour. But I saw 
him in his chambers afterwards, and when he heard my story he 
was moved by human compassion. You will hardly believe it, but 
that kindly man is writing a copy of the judgment with his own 
hand as I write this letter to you. We have just half an hour to 
catch the post, so with this letter you will receive a copy of the 
official judgment, which will set at rest once and for all the legality 
of our marriage at Moscow. Oh, my dear wife- 



298 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


“I would rather you did not read any more, if you don’t 
mind, Colonel Cartwright, the rest is . . .” 

Sir John rose hastily to support Mrs. de Haviland’s re¬ 
quest. 

“I have no wish to hear any more. I am only concerned 
with the judgment of the Federal Court.” 

“It is in French, Sir John” said Colonel Cartwright, as 
he handed it to him. 

“A matter of no consequence as far as I am concerned,” 
responded Sir John, “without my glasses I cannot read, 
but I would like an opportunity of going through it with 
my learned junior.” 

At this break in the proceedings all eyes were turned to 
the seat which had been occupied by Michael Tennant; it 
was empty. A moment later Sir John was on his feet. 

“We cannot dispute this,” he said, tapping the document 
in his hand. 

“Will you allow me one minute, Sir John,” said May¬ 
nard. “There is an enclosure to Miss du Barry’s letter. 
Mrs. de Haviland, have you got it?” 

“It is here; do you want it?” 

“If you please, Mrs. de Haviland,” replied Maynard 
eagerly. 

A whispered conversation took place between Maynard 
and Cartwright, then the latter leant over the desk and 
communicated something to the clerk of the court. A 
moment later the name of Bilton was called, and as he 
entered the witness box for the second time in that court, 
he turned dazed eyes on the bench. 

“Bilton,” said Maynard, “will you look at this letter and 
tell us if it is in the handwriting of your daughter?” 

Bilton glanced at it nervously. “Yes,” he faltered. 

“Then I will read it to you,” Maynard replied. 

Dear Mr. Barrington, 

As you know what has happened between Mr. Tennant and me 
I am writing to ask you to forgive him. It is my dying wish that 
you never lay hands on him again, for I love him, Mr. Cleeve, oh, 
you don’t know how much, and he is not to blame. I am quite 
resigned to my fate and my only thought is for those I leave behind. 
For Daddy’s sake and Mother’s do not breathe a word about this 
letter. I want them to bring in a verdict of “accidental death.” 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


299 


Please don’t think less of me for writing like this, I only want to 
spare Mother and Daddy; I never want them to know what has 
happened. Mr. Oleeve, I want you to realise that I forgive you 
for striking Mr. Tennant, for I know you only did it because he 
would not marry me, but you know he is a gentleman, and it could 
not be. He is not only to blame. Oh, how it hurts now to say it, 
but the truth is I am more to blame than him. 

Yours respectfully, 

Maud Bilton. 

As Maynard finished reading Sir Edmunds triumphant 
voice sounded throughout the court room. 

“I think the letters just read in this court have caused 
as much surprise to the prosecution as they have to me. 
There can now be only one verdict, and that verdict, your 
worships, I ask you to pronounce. Cleeve Barrington’s 
defence has all along been that he acted as he did under 
the stress of great provocation. Had any man greater? 
The case against him has been built up by lie upon lie, 
and I am sure my learned friend will join with me in the 
hope that a scoundrel like Tennant will in due course re¬ 
ceive the punishment he deserves, for a more perjured 
blackguard has never given evidence in any court. Words 
in a case like this are superfluous, and I have no doubt that 
in due course your worships will issue a warrant for his 
arrest? I presume you do not wish us to proceed any 
further with our case?” 

* 1 Most decidedly not, Sir Edmund,” replied Col. Cart¬ 
wright. “As far as the bench is concerned, we have come 
to the conclusion that this is a case where the provocation 
has been so great as to warrant our treating the assault as 
a technical offence. Mr. Barrington came into court with 
the dies weighted heavily against him, and a more happy 
ending, as far as the defence is concerned, I cannot con¬ 
ceive. Mr. Barrington leaves this court with more honour 
and respect, if that were possible, than when he entered it. 
He has acted as few of us would have done, and after read¬ 
ing Miss du Barry’s letter and having had the privilege 
of hearing your evidence, Mrs. du Barry,” added Col. Cart¬ 
wright with a courteous bow, “I hope the future holds 
compensations for the very trying ordeal you have all had 
to face. . . . The case is dismissed.” 


EPILOGUE 


4t T KNOW what you’re thinking about, Gerald.” 

-*• Mr. du Barry, thus suddenly recalled from his 
reverie, looked at his wife as she sat regarding him through 
eyes which only a few seconds before had filled with tears. 
The clamour of the departed guests who had given Cleeve 
and Yvonne such a splendid send-off still rang in her ears 
as she awaited her husband’s reply. 

“I don’t think you do, Eloise.” 

‘'I know they will be happy.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about that.” 

“I know you weren’t, Gerald. I think my thoughts must 
have wandered again, and I didn’t know I was speaking 
them aloud. You were wondering whether he will get in, 
weren’t you now?” 

“Well, partly that,” Mr. du Barry admitted slowly. 

“I thought so. I think you’re as fond of Cleeve as I 
am.” 

“You have always liked him, haven’t you, Eloise?” 

“Yes, and I always intended he should marry Yvonne.” 

“Do you think he will get in?” 

“I think he has a very good chance. I wouldn’t like to 
say more than that. You see, Gerald dear, Martin Selby’s 
had such splendid meetings. He knows the psychology of 
the voters, plays on their weaknesses, and all Cleeve had 
to offer was his honesty. They all know he has their wel¬ 
fare at heart, but there’s no doubt eloquence tells, and 
Martin Selby can speak. If you had asked me yesterday 
I think I would have said no, but now I’m not so sure. 
It was a regular brain wave of Yvonne’s to insist on the 
wedding taking place on the nineteenth as originally in¬ 
tended. At the time I thought it very unwise for them 
to be married on the polling day, but women like a mar¬ 
riage, Gerald, and what with the organ playing, the bells 

300 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 


301 


ringing, and the election on at the same time, I’ve never 
seen such a crowd in the square; and that short speech of 
Cleeve’s with Yvonne on his arm I’m sure went to the 
women’s hearts. He looked so happy and proud when he 
asked them just to take him on trust as his wife had done, 
and pleaded that, although no one had ever accused a Bar¬ 
rington of having the brains of an Oxford don, it did ap¬ 
pear logical to him that if one woman could give her life 
into his keeping the women of Longfield, who had known 
him all their lives, might trust him with their votes. And 
I’m sure that Yvonne’s few words when they asked her 
for a speech helped too . . . when she said she knew she 
was going to be happy with him, but she would be ever 
so much happier if they would make him happy too. That 
she’d married him simply because he was honest and good, 
and she thought we wanted those qualities just as much 
in Parliament as we want them in our homes. And I 
couldn’t help smiling, Gerald, when she added with that 
mischievous twinkle in her eyes: ‘I know he’s kind. Too 
kind in fact, for once I saw him carry a sack of potatoes for 
a woman who, if you ask me anything, ought to have been 
made to carry them herself!’ ” 

“Eloise, I wish I could share that hope with you; if only 
I’d listened to you I would have been a happier man to-day. 
If Cleeve doesn’t get in it’ll be all my fault.” 

“What d’you mean, Gerald?” 

“I mean if I hadn’t made such heavy weather of it all. 
I ought to have listened to you, dear, and defied de Havi- 
land from the first; and when I think of my clumsy sub¬ 
terfuge to keep Yvonne out of marriage by calling her Mrs. 
du Barry and insisting on her wearing a wedding ring I 
feel so disgusted with myself that I want a third leg to 
kick myself with! I’m sure the people think even now 
that there is some mystery about Yvonne, and if Cleeve 
doesn’t get in it’ll be all my fault.” 

“Gerald, you miustn’t talk like that; whatever you did 
you did it to protect my name. Men always make heavy 
weather of a scandal where their love is concerned; they 
can’t help it, Gerald, they’re built that way. That is why 
I let you do it. I didn’t want to lose your love, and I 
might have lost it if I hadn’t let you have your way. But, 


302 


ALL THAT MATTERS 


Gerald, the past is past sighing for; I meant Cleeve and 
Yvonne to marry from the first, something has always told 
me that in their union we should find ours, and even if that 
glacier hadn’t given up its secret I should have succeeded. 
They were meant for one another just as you and I were. 
And, Gerald, you love me just the same as you always did! 
Just as you did those twenty long, long years ago?” . . . 
****** 

“You know, Yvonne, I think you should have brought 
your maid with you. What does it matter if everyone in 
the hotel does know we’re newly married? I want to let 
the whole world know!” said Cleeve exuberantly. 

“So do I, Cleeve, only ...” Yvonne stopped in con¬ 
fusion. 

“Only what?” 

“Only ...” Her eyelids fluttered and drooped until 
they hid the violet eyes from view. “Only I don’t want 
people in the hotel to know. Cecile would just bubble over 
with delight and tell everyone.” 

The city clocks were striking eleven as the taxi swung 
into the rubber paved courtyard of the Savoy Hotel. 

“Now, remember,” Yvonne added quickly, “We are Mr. 
and Mrs. Molyneux for to-night. ... You like that name, 
don’t you, John! . . . and you’re to act as though we’ve 
been married for at least three years. You’re to get out of 
the taxi first and don’t take anything, leave the handbag 
and your overcoat for me. I shall call you John and you 
must call me Betty; now don’t forget, will you?” 

Cleeve had no time to forget; the taxi drew up in front 
of the entrance and two porters were helping them to 
alight. 

“Your bag, madam?” said one, seeking to relieve her 
of the comparatively small case she was carrying; but, 
without taking advantage of his proferred assistance, 
Yvonne followed Cleeve, who, acting under tuition, was 
already entering the hotel, leaving her to follow as though 
he were as unconcerned with her whereabouts as ... a 
Well-married man often is. 

The head porter touched his cap. 

“Pay the taxi, please,” said Yvonne. 


AT LONGFIELD AGAIN 303 

The head porter signified assent and indicated the re- 
ception counter. 

“You have a suite of rooms for me?” asked Cleeve in a 
simulated bored voice. 

1 ‘Yes, sir. What name?” 

“Molyneux.” 

“Suite 46,” the clerk called to the head porter. “Will 
you both sign the book, please sir?” 

“Betty, will you come and sign?” 

“Yes, John,” said Yvonne in a voice which seemed 
specially raised for the benefit of the crowd of people seated 
in the lounge, many of whom were gazing at her curiously. 
“I remember this place now,” added Yvonne, as though 
suddenly struck by a recollection. “This is where we 
stayed three years ago, John, don’t you remember? . . . 
And we had a room overlooking the courtyard, hadn’t 
we?” 

“Good Lord, yes! Of course we did, now I come to 
think of it,” Cleeve responded as though the recollection 
had suddenly dawned on him too. 

“There’s a telegram for you, sir,” said the clerk, looking 
at them with inquisitive eyes as he handed the wire to 
Cleeve. 

Cleeve opened it, wondering as he did so whether there 
might be another John Molyneux in the hotel, but the name 
of his father at the foot of the telegram dispelled all doubt. 

Election going overwhelmingly in your favour. Result cannot 
possibly be affected when ballot boxes of outlying villages are 
counted to-morrow. Return to Longfield by ten train to-morrow 
morning. Imperative you should be here by noon to thank your 
supporters publicly on your election as our member of Parliament. 

Sam Barrington. 

Without a word Cleeve handed it to Yvonne, and as 
she read it her eyes widened in incredulous delight and 
then, letting the telegram flutter to the ground, dropping 
his overcoat and releasing her hold on the handbag, she 
flung her arms round Cleeve’s neck, regardless of the in¬ 
terest displayed by the occupants of the lounge. 


304 ALL THAT MATTERS 

Yvonne’s next words crashed like the opening bars of 
the wedding march in a hushed church. . . . 

“Oh, Cleeve, this is the best wedding present we’ve 
had!” 

“ Cleeve’s face broadened into a wide grin as he whispered 
maliciously: “And we stayed here three years ago, didn’t 
we?” 


THE END 














MAY 24 Isy 



